


The Protection Game

by orphan_account



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 160,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: WoC!Reader-insert, hideous universityl AU with every possible trigger to cover my ass because of how dark my work often gets. Reader/Negan, Reader/Many“One lucky student with above average scores in a low-income housing area gets given the international golden ticket for a full-ride at a college in the USA. This year, it happened to be you – thrust into a world of parties, frats, boys and hot professors, and hot dads...? There was just no way this was going to go well.”





	1. Everybody Hates Trevor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow first chapter bc it introduces a lot. Next chapter: More of that delicious Negan, possibly some Shane, and the one and only older - "Look at the flowers" Lizzie Samuels! Because who else would be your lab partner but her, right? And it's an AU so I can do whatever the hell I like, it makes sense when you find our what subject you're taking, read on, my wayward sons. Read on. Give it a shot. You might even like it.

Walking down the narrow roads, you shoved your hands into the depths of your oversized hoodie, and kept your head down through the council estate. There was usually a few flecks of glass left in pavement cracks when the night drinkers came out of The Trough and would dump the bottles because the council lagged with waste disposal. You didn’t blame them personally, any public worker who had to come into this borough was an unlucky bastard.

 

“Give you a half ounce for a suck,” you grimaced as you got shouted at from across the park you were cutting through, rolling your eyes. Just from the voice you knew who that was, that was Javeed, the burnout from secondary school. Jesus, you brought weed from the guy exactly one time and that was to celebrate your scholarship. God – the scholarship – nobody would shut up about it, you were the first successful thing to come out of your neck of the woods in years, even the people who made it and left the estate never went that far.

 

“Go suck your own dick Javeed!” you yelled, turning and making a beeline for your house, jamming the key in almost violently.

 

Successful was considered when you made it to London but didn’t actually live in the shitty parts, successful was high fallutin’ city centre life. Your parents didn’t find out until the last minute, your father didn’t have much to say – he never did unless he had half a bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey down him but your mother started crying horribly. Of course you had to tell her eventually, but it seemed like as happy as she was, part of her resented you for finally leaving this horrible place.

 

That’s why you felt more than a little out of sorts when you finally stood on the campus grounds of Virginia Military Academy – it just looked so big and imposing. It had several different buildings and a massive quad with a large, granite statue that stood tall and imposing right in the centre.

 

Walking up to it, you could see it was several men in military uniform standing in height order, all of them saluting, with a large American flag being flown out behind them. Glancing down at the golden plaque, you frowned in curiosity – from the dates it looked like some kind of Korean war memorial statue? From what little you knew of the Korean war, horrifying things went down on both sides and you didn’t know how they were important to the college, but already you felt sort of dwarfed by the thing.

 

With a frown, you lugged a small, grey suitcase on wheels behind you, waiting at a reception for an administrative building which had a thankfully huge sign above it. You had a map printed out, sure, but without a “you are here,” sign on it, it was hard to coordinate where you were. You had a rough idea, you weren’t inept, but you were supposed to wait for a guide. In the mean time, your eyes were everywhere, struggling to take it all in – the sheer immensity, it didn’t feel real, even after hopping off the plane, the hours in the American embassy in London trying to get your fucking visa – it still didn’t feel real. But now it did.

 

“Oh my God, Oh my God, I’m sorry! I’m late!” a woman’s voice pierced through the air, you frowned in surprise, a long-legged, skinny woman was running towards you. She had long brunette hair tied in a ponytail and a pair of long, dark green slacks, and a white polo shirt which was unbuttoned quite far down her chest to reveal a strange, meshed black layer underneath.

 

“Erica?” you said in confusion “I’m supposed to meet an Erica Powell here?”

 

“Yeah, oh yeah, that’s me!” she panted, keeling over forwards to put her hands on her knees and catch her breath, she probably ran across the entire campus to get to you, you mused. “Sorry I’m late I just – I completely lost track of the time and that never happens but my phone was out of battery and my watch is broken and—“

 

You grimaced and held your hand up in surrender.

 

“It’s okay, I’m just glad you’re here, this place is…” you exhaled slowly, glancing up at the memorial statue.

 

“Scary?” Erica quipped, and you nodded dumbly. “God – your accent is so cute! Sorry, I just had to get it out, anyway, I’m your RA for the Unilocks building – you’ll have it marked as University Locks on your map,” she supplied.

 

“What’s an RA? I thought you were my guide?” you said, God, you wished you weren’t on your own.

 

“Eh, kind of like a babysitter for everybody in Unilocks,” she rolled her eyes “-I’m a senior, FYI, not staff, so you don’t have to have a crap attack or anything, if something is up, you can find me and I’ll help. Like, settling disputes, resident concerns to admin, just…keeping stuff under control. Kinda like a landlord but with no real power, we all just kinda pretend I have some,” she rolled her eyes. You felt very out of sorts, even her clothes looked a lot more up market than you, honestly, ever since you’d been picked – even though they said you earned it, you almost felt like an imposter. You felt like a massive imposter as she walked you into University Locks, pointing out various things which felt like they were going into one ear and out of the other, in all honesty, you just wanted to find whichever was your dorm room and fall asleep.

 

“Girl, you look ready to drop – let me guess, jetlag? You’re like what, five hours ahead?” chortled Erica.

 

“Is it that obvious?” you said dryly “I didn’t want to come across rude but…”

 

“Oh no, it’s fine, really,” she laughed, before getting to a door that read “104” in neat, cursive script that was emblazoned on the door. Jesus Christ, even the door looked fucking fancy. Erica seemed a little quick to abandon you, though she did offer to give you a full tour of the place while it was mostly empty, she apparently had quite a lot on her plate and you felt more like an inconvenience than anything. Even on your way into the place, you felt an overwhelming amount of anxiety and nervousness, everything was planned of course - the stressful part was over. You'd taken the tests, got two pages of references from your teachers, wrote the stupid personal essay, grovelled for the full-ride scholarship and then there was the visa application and for God's sake, the Virginia Military Academy had a goddamn fitness test! The only reason you passed it was because secondary school had you in the habit of running for your fucking life on a semi-regular basis.

 

You really didn't feel like you deserved to be there, or should be there. Entering it, it felt like a hotel room at first, except that it had two single beds opposite each other, one large window with perhaps the worst pair of curtains you'd ever seen, which were a horrid shade of pea green. The walls themselves were bare, and you didn't even know which bed to pick, both had plain sheeting on them which looked rather on the thin side, but the bedframe was strong - stronger than the one you had at home where the bars were falling through so the mattress dipped, you'd always put them back but sometimes in the middle night, they'dd give and you'd actually injure yourself.

 

Yeah, it was good to have a fucking bed.

 

You picked the one furthest from the window and sat down on it, it looked like you had a roommate - you knew you signed up for the two room accommodation if you couldn't get a single, and you much preferred a single, but those apparently went fast, and with the scholarship covering tuition, board and the meal plan, you felt like it wasn't your place to complain. You passed out with your trainers on, sleepily checking the beaten-up LG phone you had for any calls, only for your eyelids to close from the sensation of heaviness. It's not like you got much sleep on the flight, it had been awful - there were kids running up and down the aisles, a screaming baby - because of course there's always fucking one, and a lady who thought she could take liquids in her hand luggage and caused a fight which made the process of even getting on the plane unbearable.

 

Then there was the lovely touch-up from the security services, having to get out your old, shoddy laptop and walking through a scanner without your shoes on.

 

You slept through the day because in truth, you were moved in a week early before classes began and as an international student, a lot of what you had to sort out was sorted out many months in advance, a lot of it while you were still in England in fact, so you were able to at least, sleep off the jetlag.

 

Upon awaking, you found yourself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes and nearly jumped out of your skin - you did, in fact, scream, which was a lovely first impression to make on your roommate, who you'd learn was Lorelai. She had a lovely, thick, Georgia accent and short, bobbed blond hair and a slightly wider-set but lovely figure. 

 

"You're the full English, right?" her eyes sparkling "Get it - like the breakfast?"

 

You groaned, and closed your eyes - you figured you might be getting a lot of this, but smiled anyway, and told her your name anyway to formally introduce yourself. The first thing about Lorelai you noticed was that she had not one, not two, but four suitcases, all of them of varying size, thankfully - but you only had one closet, so you honestly didn't know how this was going to work. You could live out of your suitcase you supposed, it's not like you owned much - and it seemed Lorelai was intent on splitting the room so she didn't encroach on your space, but you found yourself not minding too much - it's not like you had a lot of stuff anyway and said as much.

 

"But you WILL get stuff," said Lorelai insistently, before turning to you with a winning smile "-especially if you're my roomie, sorry about the closet by the way - I kinda have a lot of clothes so I need the space," gesturing to the large oak closet which was quickly filling up with hanger upon hanger of clothes - a lot of them dresses, some of the sweaters, very few of them trousers - and nearly all of them looked expensive.

 

"I'm a little bigger than you but you can like, borrow whatever you want as payment for me keeping all the closet space, cool?"

 

You stared at her, wondering how open she could be with her things, back at home, that would just be a fast way to get your shit nicked. Either Americans were really, really dimwitted, or this one was just particularly trusting, you weren't sure, and while she seemed a little overwhelming, she didn't seem like a bad person. Maybe a little cheery for your tastes, for sure, but not a bad person - which was a relief, because you didn't want to be looking for a new room assignment on week one of your arrival. You had this overwhelming fear of just being the "difficult" one who refused to integrate and caused a problem. You wanted to show VMA that you were nothing but grateful to them for this opportunity, most people in your area back home lived there and died there and were lucky to even go to university.

 

"Uh, I mean yeah, cool," you said flatly - only to feel a bit meek, unzipping your very small suitcase.

 

"I get it, y'know?" said Lorelai suddenly "You've probably got like, so much to sort out!"

 

"Actually, I sorted out a lot of it back in England, I mean admissions, the financial aid - scholarships and... job application stuff... they kind of put me through the ringer before I even step foot in the visa office," you said softly, remembering the firmness of the admissions officer you had assigned to you just to get you through the process. You sat on the bed, taking off your beaten trainers to sit on your bed - your bed! - you couldn't believe it, you were actually here. Apparently, that glaze hadn't quite worn off on you, and she could tell, and didn't press you too hard - even if she really, really wanted to.

 

"Job application stuff? Oh! Work-study, right? Makes sense I guess, pay your way," she grinned "-I know this sophomore, she's a janitor - not glamorous I know, but the second people got into the second semester and started realising how much it sucked to be broke, and man, people envied her! So what do they have you doing? Janitor work? Library?"

 

You just shrugged, picking at your nails - you had an email telling you that you had a job orientation but that wouldn't be a day before people started signing up for clubs, frats and sororities - it was odd to you, because those things were just distant concepts in sitcoms and movies, even British universities didn't quite function in that kind of a way, so it was strange to actually be living it.

 

"I'm a 'Laundry Worker' apparently - I have an orientation for that but I'm pretty sure I can figure out an American washer-dryer," you said flatly with an eye roll "-Starting salary was like... $14,733 according to the job posting, and I think I got priority bumped from how early I applied and me being 'high need' and all," you rolled your eyes, you weren't going to make any bones about it. You were poor as fuck, you ticked a bunch of ethnic boxes for their diversity quota, you worked goddamn hard for everything you had even if you didn't have the world's best opportunities back home or the work environment, but the fact was, these scholarships were offered to one lucky student who worked hard enough for it that went to one of the schools in your low-income housing area and they seldom found a good enough academic performer. The fact was, you were a charity case, and while you weren't embarrassed about what was life for you, you definitely felt dwarfed, and out of place.

 

"Well sh'yeah, you're an international right? Unless you've got the silver spoon in your mouth, college is expensive as fuck, more-so for foreigns unless you come from money," said Lorelai casually.

 

You could tell instantly at this moment that she clearly came from money.

 

"Scholarship," you said shortly, only for her to look at you in surprise.

 

"Holy shit, you got the Charles Rangel didn't you?" she said in surprise "I know like, six people who applied for that and didn't get it, go you!" she laughed, flopping on her back on the bed. There was a strangely comfortable silence that followed, mostly with you trying to set up your ancient Toshiba laptop and sign into the university's Wi-Fi. You sent a message to let your mother know you got home safe - it's not like you could afford the international texting and calling rates anyway and your mother was abysmal at actually picking up Skype calls, so you left her an email and an IM for whenever she'd see it, before sighing - and staring blankly at the bare walls. Lorelai was already hanging up posters - some of them were movie posters of titles you vaguely recognised, at least it made the room feel less bare.

 

Thank God Lorelai didn't talk as much as you thought she would. You felt like you could sleep for another few years.

 

* * *

 

 

 

A few things about America nobody bothered to tell you - you needed a ride to get absolutely anywhere - and that was the biggest thing. You'd be absolutely housebound for lack of better word and the most you could do short of going through the prospectus over and over again to see what the "Student Life" section had to offer, you slept a lot until you adjusted to timezone. So it's not like you could get to know the local area - but peering out of your window, you could see people running across the great green grounds in cadet uniform - with a shocking amount of dedication.

 

Oh yeah, orientation was going to be harsh - it was, after all, a military academy, even though you were here for incredibly well-funded science department, it seemed even the people here for the nerdy subjects had the same treatment. You even had a strange little uniform consisting of a jacket, slacks, and a small red hat - you did feel a bit stupid in it, but once you got separated by major - which again, very odd - the caps were off, and it seemed you were finally in the hands of your fellow geeks.

 

A man with a strange sort of pallor came up to greet you - he was apparently responsible for the running of this particular course, and had a very queer nature about him. He had the kind of face which made you think it was permanently set to one expression of being completely and utterly nonplussed and a military buzz-cut, and a thick pair of black squared frames. You already knew who this was - you did all of your research and more, and your parents thought that personally, you were going down a dark path when it came to picking a career. They, being the typical Indians wanted you not only to get out of the ghetto, but to do it being a conventional doctor, surgeon, or dentist, but in truth most were lucky to even make it to sixteen and actually grow up where you lived, and only your mother took an active role in making sure you had enough care to be able to succeed academically.

 

"Welcome to the Virginia Military Academy's department of Mortuary Science," he said with a wide grin. "I would advise that you take note of all of the students here, the people beside you, in front of you, behind you - and know that at least a third of you will drop out, or switch courses. All of you are here because you took some preparatory class, and passed a few standardised tests, or, because you are simply good at what you do. But this is no standard medical qualification, this enters you into the very last chapter of the medical profession, when doctors and nurses have done all they can, and the rest is up to the powers that be. You exist on the precipice of student life here at VMA,"

 

"Unless you get involved with societies, it is highly likely you will only associate with the people here, and those numbers can and always do, dwindle. I say this not to scare you, but to prepare you - because the coming days and weeks will be perhaps your toughest. You can and will get strange looks from the student body when you tell them what your major is, you may even face adversity, but I want you to know that I and my staff hand pick everyone we allow to be on this course, and that you would not be here if we didn't think you deserved to be here. So, I implore you freshmen to go out, spread your wings as much as you can, do not be hindered by association to this major - and it pains me to even have to say it - but if you should face any problems that do not resolve themselves in a civil manner, please contact your RA or my staff directly. We have an honour code here at VMA, and as strict as we are, we do want you to enjoy your time here," said Professor Mattius.

 

Well, you swallowed thickly - that filled you with hope, you sort of hoped the military types wouldn't care, especially at an undergraduate level, but apparently people just got a bit on edge when it came to dead bodies.

 

It explained why Lorelai faltered when you told her your major, and she seemed much more interested about your minor - which would be in biopsychology, because you'd be in the same block at roughly similar times due to how classes were scheduled, she took military history while you'd be in mortuary science, but would be minoring in regular general psychology. You did at least meet two people you thought seemed nice, a ginger girl called Lindsay and another Indian, by the name of Ravinder, who seemed to strike a strange kinship with you.

 

Weird, because being an Indian-American was very different to being a British-Indian, you thought, but accepted the kinship anyway. You at least had two local numbers in your phone that you could afford to text and people to sit with during orientation and your first lectures, so there was that. The only bonus to being in the Geek Building was that you got marginally less of the military treatment, which was just fine by you - the way Lorelai came in and moaned about her aches and her constant uniform ironing made you very thankful that you'd eventually get a lab-coat instead and that it would be acceptable for you to be in casual wear once you had one. What you looked forward to was "The Rush" - when all the stalls would be set up and people rushed to join their sororities or fraternities.

 

For you, it was clubs. You weren't the most social creature in school, but after that scary pep talk at orientation, you needed to have at least one, you thought. You walked past the frats and sororities - the kind of impression you had from movies didn't really make you want to go up to them, though you were surprised to see that VMA had cheerleaders recruiting, and so many sports teams that you didn't honestly know where to put your eyes - there was an  _abundance_ of incredibly fit people.

 

Maybe going to school here wasn't so bad.

 

The boxing club looked interesting you thought - you'd register an interest for it anyway, you'd have to fit it around your campus job and see when practice was, the women's boxing seemed like it was starved for people signing up and the woman lit up when you did. In truth, it just would keep you on fighting form, you had to do enough of that back home and it'd be nice to know a method of self-defence in a foreign country, you thought, so you signed up for it before deciding to call it day. You didn't really know how much you could take on before you found out how your hours were divvied up.

 

Between this, an orientation for your new job, finding the laundromat, getting intimately familiar with how dry-cleaning worked as well as all of the washer-dryers in general and the administrative system they had for, quote "Priority" - and orientation for lectures, then your first women's boxing meet, you Skyped with your mother for all of ten minutes before you fell asleep on camera, missing when she blew you a kiss and hung up, chuckling proudly, if a little sadly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_"Mortuary science? Yikes, sorry about the creepy roommate,"_

 

You slipped deeper under the covers, pretending rather poorly that you couldn't hear Lorelai's friend - she had, apparently, joined the Jewish sorority, and had been busy making a lot more friends while you'd flat out fallen asleep, overwhelmed and stressed past the point of being able to deal with it for the week.

 

" _Shhh, she's asleep, anyway, she's nice - cutest little accent I swear, dead science or nah, gosh just wait till you hear her - you could just put her in your pocket!"_

 

Okay, so maybe Lorelai wasn't a total bitch after all, you smiled. One thing you learned about VMA was the rapidly divided student body, everyone seemed to associate by building - science kids stayed with science kids, art and design in another, and the massive hub dedicated to sports. If not for your dorming situation, you would be very surprised if you would be the kind of person Lorelai would willingly hang out with - she at least didn't make too many bones about the kinds of posters you had on your side of the wall. She gave you some bluetac and you were able to put up the few you'd brought from home - you only had two and they were both just A4 sized and fairly worn out poster for A Nightmare on Elm Street and Dracula's Daughter, incredibly old classic horror films. It was really all you had, and Lorelai couldn't say she was surprised by your viewing habits.

 

She did have the nasty surprise of seeing the "Mortuary Anatomy" book laying open in a particularly gory section about decomposition under desert heat - and it was at this point that she realised your interests and hers were very different, but it didn't mean you couldn't be friends.

 

"Sooo, Fi Kappa Si are having a welcoming party for all their pledges and I think you should come," said Lorelai.

 

You frowned - your idea of fraternities came from movies and the last thing you wanted to see was somebody stick their cock in a pie.

 

"Could you really see me at a frat party? You guys have a different vibe, your parties and my parties are two different things," you said with an eye roll.

 

"Different how?" Lorelai scoffed "Can't be that different over the pond,"

 

"No offence, but my parties were usually in this bit of town called the Concrete Jungle, it got smashed by a bunch of rioters we had when a drug baron got shot back in '08, we only ever got funding to rebuild the YMCA but the rest of the place got destroyed, and the kids who went to Birchwood would end up having all their out of school fights there, their deals - there was an old warehouse we'd go and rave in. Well, the kids cooler than me would rave in it, I'd pass through and just hear stuff. But our parties, someone overdosed - usually Overdose Emily - fourteen year olds everywhere would black out on alcohol and - oh yeah, someone got hurt. Usually a lot of people," you said flatly. "We're from two different world's Lorelai."

 

"Sheesh, I almost regret asking," said Lorelai - staring at you, because as much as this life felt like a fucking movie to you, when you described yours, it sounded almost unreal to her in a similar fashion. "-But, it just means you need a taste of something different, a walk on the wild side! Come on, you're not in England anymore - get a taste of that all-American life before you get swallowed by the science department like everyone else in Geek Building - uh, no offence. It's just what they call it," Lorelai added quickly.

 

Needless to say, you spent all of thirty minutes at that party. You gave it a shot you really, and truly did - but you didn't understand the hype behind watching a bunch of people drinking beer out of red paper cups to be all that exciting, because on your council estate, kids had been drinking underage since they were fourteen, knew how to get wasted at sixteen, and by eighteen didn't have to pay assholes to get them their alcohol for them. You being nineteen you found it really strange that people made a huge deal about it here, but apparently, the drinking age was 21, but in the fraternity house, it all just sort of became ambiguous, and nobody really cared.

 

"Hey English," a boy approached you, he was tall, he had good shoulders - the short VMA-preferred brown hairstyle for boys, and was dressed down in dark slacks and a shirt that was only half tucked in, he had a sort of cute look about him - you thought. Dark eyes, mousy little smile, but he had an unmistakable air of confidence about him - and it seemed Lorelai had gone around introducing you as "The international" and people started just calling you English instead of bothering to ask your name.

 

"Hi....?"

 

"Trevor," the boy supplied "-I take Military History with Lorelai - she said you're into old movies and that's - that's actually kinda my jam so I thought I should talk to you, y'know? You uh, probably don't know that many friendly faces and I'd like to be one of them," he smiled.

 

Oh fuck him for being charming.

 

"I mean, I know Ravinder and Lindsay - uhm, two people in my class - they're uh, I mean, we're in the Geek Building," you said lamely "Lorelai, my RA - Erica, and um, now you, I guess. Trevor," you said, supplying him your real name and feeling a strange flush on your cheeks as he handed you a red cup and you found yourself nursing a beer. 

 

"So... Awkward Freshman Question Time, but mandatory, what're you taking in Geek Building? You with the Nuclear Engineering guys - or pure sciences or what?" eyes sparkling like he might genuinely be interested. 

 

The second you uttered "Mortuary Science," - it was like it all got strained, and awkward all of a sudden. You wondered if you should mention your minor first or something and if you had unintentionally alienated yourself through choice of your major alone, and scowled fiercely. Needless to say, you left the frat party pretty quickly - it was definitely not your cup of tea, but at least you went. Your first few classes seemed to be mindless fluff about funerary regulations and related laws and embalming throughout history - which was at least a little interesting, because they got someone from the history department to deliver it on ancient Egyptian mummification.

 

You did try to tell Lorelai about it, but she just nodded blankly, it seemed like Ravinder and Lindsay were your only actual friends of a kind, and even they came from very different backgrounds to you, but at least things hit a bit closer with Ravinder - and he offered to take you to 'the only decent takeout for Indian places in the state of Virginia' if you missed home, which was sweet you thought.

 

"Fuck Trevor - but don't actually fuck Trevor, the dude's a jockstrap, he was probably just hitting on you 'cos you're different," said Ravinder bluntly "-but in all fairness it is pretty cute," you got used to it at this point. It made no real impact when you retorted that to you, all of them sounded adorable, and frighteningly charming, because you were only really used to hearing their kinds of accents on TV. It even felt like to them, you might be joking, so you didn't bother to retort that they sounded cute back, so you stopped.

 

"Whatevs, Ravi," you sighed - you two had the habit of going into the central building where the people doing nutrition based degrees and Sports Psychology, which you didn't even know was a thing, but funnily enough, they also had the best cafeteria from which to fulfil your paid-for meal plan with, so it wasn't unusual to see a few of the people from Geek Building slide in. It felt like you had some kind of a rhythm now, you went to the library, studied with Ravi and Lindsay, went to one of Lorelai's horrible social events at least once a week to keep her happy and now, you had Professor Mattius's attention as one of the more promising freshmen. It wasn't the smoothest transition, and your major did almost feel like a cross to bare, but at least all of the people in the Geek Building seemed to get on with each other, but it seemed even a lot of the other sciences veered away from you.

 

"So, did Trevor ever text you back? You said you see him at socials," said Lindsay - who seemed to be the happiest when it came to her social life out of most of the freshmen here, having joined the Mortuary Science Social Club - because it was about the only real way to avoid being completely alone if you didn't take to people in your class right away, she at least had an abundance of new phone contacts and always seemed to be invited to something.

 

So far, you found America big, exhausting and lonely.

 

"He smiles at me on the quad sometimes but he ignores me if he's with people, but he does always text back - eventually," you said with a sigh, oh yeah, that felt like high school.

 

"Gonna repeat myself - the dude's a jockstrap," Ravinder singsonged, making you roll your eyes.

 

"Yeah well apparently the college football team gets priority at the laundromat and they don't class their varsity gear as personal uniform, it's school property, so guess who gets a load of dirty, sweaty week-old sports gear to wash on Wednesdays which needs to be ready by Friday for weekend practice because apparently college footballers can't take responsibility for their clothes, but all the guys who have to wear their VMA cadet issue uniform have personal responsibility to wash and iron that, right?" you sighed.

 

"Oh my God, seriously? They have you washing the sport's teams clothes? That's so wrong," Lindsay moaned "-but now we know why the pay is so good, right?"

 

"Right, and I still can't afford to get my license 'cos I don't get paid yet, or y'know, rent anything or put a deposit down on a car so Lorelai is stuck ferrying me if I want to go anywhere so I'm like, dorm-bound unless I want to hang out with her friends and oh my God, I kind of hate her friends," you moaned, closing your eyes as Ravinder brought you what he dubbed as a Sympathy Shake - aka, a strawberry shake.

 

"Oooh yeah ouch, English kid problems man, you need to learn to drive on our side of the road and get the baptism of fire that is known as the DMV, or the tenth circle of Hell nobody tells you about until you get there," deadpanned Ravinder, only for you to snap.

 

"Damn right, I took mum's old kettle because I thought I could make tea in my dorm room but I have to order or pay someone to go get me a UK to US adaptor just so I can have a bloody cup of tea! It's mad! And you know what Lorelai said? 'Why don't you just microwave the water to boil' - like good God, who does that?!" you shrieked.

 

Ravinder and Lindsay stared at you, and a few people behind you started laughing in the lunch line - because you couldn't have sounded any more stereotypical if you tried, but goddamnit, it was a real, actual, tangible issue for you. You missed your mother, you definitely didn't miss your father, but you missed knowing where everything was. You missed knowing the area like the back of your hand even if it had been unsafe and dangerous and all you'd ever wanted to do was leave, you missed your stupid smoothie shack and you missed petting Mr Steven's dog - and God - there was no way you were fucking homesick for the ghetto right?

 

Well, maybe a little. 

 

"You dropped this!" someone said, making you turn around - to the one person who wasn't laughing - it was someone in a VMA uniform, so not someone from Geek Building, clearly, and he had a remarkably gangly body, and long hair which had been tied back incredibly tightly so as not to break the dresscode, and maybe the most piercing set of blue eyes you'd seen in a while. The guy outreached his hand and sure enough - your dorm key was there, and you swore before you could stop yourself, before quickly stammering out a thank you.

 

"I was so busy complaining that I didn't even feel this drop out, I should clip it to something - thank you uh...?" you trailed off.

 

"Carl, Carl Grimes," he said easily, handing you the key back. "I uh, heard you talking about Trevor - sorry - I don't mean to listen in I just - he's in my class," 

 

You frowned at the boy curiously, holding your tray of food with Lindsay and Ravinder going off to find you a table to sit at with them.

 

"Just...be careful," said Carl after a long moment, you questioned it, but he gave you a little shrug. He was a freshmen too, but the guy gave him vibes, and if it was one thing his father, Rick, taught him, it was to trust his instincts. He heard how some of the people in class talked about girls, more specifically, some of the boys on his security training course, and frankly, it was worse than a high school locker room, and Trevor was no exception, but the way he spoke just made Carl feel greasy in a way he couldn't explain. "See you around," he said - before turning tail and heading for his friends.

 

Well, you mused - that was weird.

 

* * *

 

 

It seemed that the universe unfolded in such a way that it wanted to fuck you over. You knew it would be too good to fucking last - it was like everything that could go wrong in a week, did go wrong! Your Biopsychology teacher was a woman who had the longest rod up her ass since the era of Vlad the Impaler, you had no friends being the only person taking "Dead Science," in there, your laptop had broken when Lorelai got you a universal plug socket because of a power malfunction or something. You still wouldn't be getting paid for a while, you had so much reading to do, you were getting roped into watching a sports game with Lorelai that you didn't care about too much for and you were washing the uniforms for aforementioned sports team.

 

You were going to see your first in-class cadaver later this week too, and were given far too much to read before then, so between the riveting experience of washing out uniforms and keeping track of student's dry cleaning, you were walking up and down the laundromat with your copy of _Mortuary Anatomy_ under your nose, stressed and homesick and lonely. You couldn't stream your shitty British soap operas any more and you were region-locked when you took out a rented student laptop, you couldn't even get your mum to figure out Skype properly - it seemed luck whenever she picked up or not, and it was all just...shit.

 

The game would at least be more fun, even if you hated being surrounded by screaming fans, you had an excuse to spend what little money your mother could send you off with on a hot-dog and watch a bunch of guys in little shorts running around clobbering each other covered in sweat.

 

Looking down, you saw the group of players - recognising Trevor easily, because turning to the figure directing them with an angry, sharp whistle. He was broad and in a black tracksuit with the college emblem on it - impossibly broad, the more you stared, you could only see him from behind at the moment, but wondered who he was. Turning back to the game, you could see someone limping, and the coach angrily getting him off of the field - you remembered hoping it wouldn't be too long, because Lorelai was your ride to and from the arena and it seemed she was hellbent on staying through the whole thing.

 

"My friend's are cheering see?" she pointed to some girls in all black and white colour scheme cheerleading outfits, and you sighed. So THAT was the real reason. Great. The friends who thought you were creepy but it seemed that the VMA cheerleaders didn't necessarily go for a perky motif, and called themselves the Black Widows, and were known for scaring the piss out of other teams during national cheerleading competitions - which, you had to admit, was pretty damn cool. "So I thought I'd come see them perform,"

 

"I came to see guys in shorts get sweaty and hurt each other," you said cheerfully, slowly biting on a hot-dog with a grin, which made Lorelai laugh - now this is where you two got on, even if she called you vaguely gothic and just a little mopey, especially seeing your choice of light reading being _Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro_ or _The Road by Cormac McCarthy_ that she vaguely recognised from her English lit days as one of the most depressive reads she ever had to slog through, she was determined to nurture your sunnier side. You glanced over at the rest of the stands and saw quite a lot of people from outside of university life had come to see a college football game, again, a totally strange concept to you - and in truth, you didn't know much about the rules to American football, you gathered enough knowledge to follow who scored when but that was about it. 

 

"Good a reason as any," a low voice laughed beside you - it was hard to ignore the accent and he didn't even try, you turned and found yourself face to face with an older man, but he couldn't have been that old - you were immediately struck by the fact he wasn't actually bad looking either. He had a good face that sort of screamed authority but when it was smiling like that, you couldn't help but find it attractive, with short buzzed hair sitting beside someone who admittedly, wasn't bad looking either but from how he was cheering, was clearly the father of one of the players.

 

You smiled a little uneasily, unsure of how to carry the conversation if not for Lorelai's subtle prodding of your ankle with her foot.

 

"Yeah, I mean I mostly get to look at everybody circuit training across the quad from the labs but that's about it, I um, don't think I'd get out to these much. I'm still kinda learning the rules - it's kinda like rugby, but more padding, and um, touchdowns are worth twice as much and a little more here than in rugby," you added as an afterthought, making the man let out a low hum of appreciation.

 

"Games are longer, passes are kinda different. But I think I'm following," you said with a little half-shrug "-defending interference being a penalty is new to me though,"

 

"For someone whose new to the game, you sound like you're pickin' up just fine," said the man with, watching as you bit down on your lip when he smiled at you.

 

"I just read a lot, I mean, in English fo--um, soccer, not knowing the offside rule and attending a game is social suicide," you said flatly - quickly correcting yourself as you spoke and causing the man to chuckle. 

 

"Dramatic, but good to know the English take their sports as seriously as we do," he said, before jumping up to join the wave of cheers while you stayed down and nursed your impressively sized hot-dog - it seemed like everything was just larger and immense in America, especially food portions, the bread wasn't even enough to properly hold the damn thing. You might have been giving off flirting signals unwittingly, human body language was horrible like that - tucking your hair behind your ears, smiling, leaning in a lot and cracking a few jokes with the stranger, he seemed to preen under the fact you were a freshmen and obviously checking him out, but toned it down just a little so he felt marginally less creepy.

 

You pretended blissfully not to notice as he subtly leaned into his friend and spoke in a low, gravelly tone.

 

"College students, Rick. I just got hit on by a freshmen international, I'm telling ya - I still got it," he smirked, making the other man shake his head and laugh. 

 

It seemed the only positive male-oriented interaction you had besides Ravinder and Professor Mattius was this guy, and you later learned that they were actually Virginia PD - police officers who you just so happened to catch off-duty, making you feel like maybe you should have been a little bit more formal with them and reflected the seriousness of the academy instead of try to socialise with them like they were just ordinary people, because dammit - they were the law! 

 

You did, suddenly, feel quite inappropriate, but somehow - that just made it better.  

 

"You know, if you get lost around town, just uh call, ask for the sheriff deputy," he said with a grin, you resisted the urge to widen your eyes in surprise, he'd clearly dropped the position of power to impress you, and admittedly, it worked and you felt massively dwarfed by the man's presence.

 

"Is this the cheesy part where you tell me your number is nine-one-one?" you scoffed, making him laugh rather guiltily - causing the man beside him to smirk.

 

"Looks like she got you all figured out, c'mon, we should probably make tracks. It was nice meeting you ladies," the man, whose name was apparently Rick, was very respectful but seemed to draw a sort of line in you being so very young, and freshmen, where Shane seemed like he was having fun and, being that you were legal, didn't seem to mind nearly so much or be so highly strung, and so Rick was subtly trying to get him away. He'd talk to him about it in the station, it's not like it was illegal, and much of it was probably just Shane preening at the young attention he was getting, but still.

 

"Here, is my actual number," said the man, reaching into his jean pocket and asking you for a pen, and being a college student who was actually prepared - you were able to give him an obnoxiously fluffy-headed one, which he blinked at, as though suddenly reminded of how young you really were, before scribbling something on the notepad that he simply forgot to take out of his pocket which he found himself vindictively writing off-duty parking tickets with on a bad day. (A hobby that Rick Grimes personally found to be very sadistic but not illegal).

 

"The name is Shane, by the way," he wrote it under his number, tore it, and gave it to you while Rick shook his head in abject disbelief.

 

You mumbled your name back, taking the piece of paper, and slipping it into your pocket shyly.

 

Oh yeah, if only your ghettoass family could see you hitting on the long-arm of the law itself, you were sure they'd be aneurysms all around.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lorelai was all over you while you stood in the empty stands in disbelief, staring at the scrap of paper in your hands. There was no way that this happened, things like this didn't happen to girls like you, this happened to girls in movies and books, sure but not girls like you. You didn't get hit on by sherrif deputies, you didn't grab their number in a single meeting either. The last time this ever happened to you was when you had gone to a club up in Shoreditch, London and you had dressed far nicer than you could actually afford to, in a borrowed dress and second-hand high heels and you were sure the guy just wanted to get a leg over, as clubs weren't exactly the setting for epic romances, but being hit on by an upper echelon of society?

 

That was just new.

 

Lorelai stayed with you as the bleachers cleared out and the team began to leave, until you heard someone calling your name, making you walk all the way down to the bottom row of stadium to one of the team members - it was Trevor - because of course it was, and it was the only guy on the team you actually knew.

 

He held his hand out and asked you to jump the stadium to walk with him, you frowned, and glanced backwards at Lorelai, who just smiled and shrugged, before mouthing "Do it!" - because of course she'd say that. Lindsay would have told you to have just ignored the guy and gone home with your roommate already.

 

"What'd you think of the game?" Trevor asked with a smile.

 

"It was good - fun - I guess. I dunno, I don't get out much so that was the best part of it for me, did you need something?" you rushed out, jumping the stadium and feeling the strange astroturf "obviously fake" grass under your beat-up trainers. You didn't have much in the way of going out clothes, or clothes in general and you still felt weird about borrowing Lorelai's - so you were in sneakers, some slit jeans and an oversized brown turtleneck jumper. Not the most attractive attire, sure, but you found yourself caring less and less for what Trevor had to say.

 

"Ooh, harsh, am I in the doghouse?" he said with a grimace. "Listen, I know I've been kind of...off..."

 

"You've been acting like a jockstrap," you said bluntly, making him grin and hold his hands up in surrender.

 

"Yes, I have been acting like a complete and utter jockstrap, so I'll totally understand if you say no - but I was wondering if you'd go to the next social with me, and maybe if you'd like to catch this old re-show of the original Kong - it's - it's at this refurbed retro cinema uptown. I mean, I'd take you there and back, and I'd get you back to the dorms before ten like a good little boy," he said playfully.

 

Now, it was very, very tempting, but the offer seemed very out of the blue, and being hit on twice in one day was more than overwhelming, especially for someone who considered themselves a gutter rat. Somehow, after all of the impersonal texts, the "Sorry I've been busy" or "I have practice" excuses when you knew there was, in fact, no practice, made you think Trevor regretted even getting your number and giving his at the party, you were fully ready to let the guy go, even if he was an older year, who was some fancy high fallutin' athlete, it's not like you actually cared. So this? Honestly, logically, it didn't make sense, you were probably a back-up because a plan had fallen through - or it was some sort of a joke, or a bet, or him just trying to get a leg over.

 

Lorelai said the technique he was using was similar to negging, which you also didn't understand, but apparently being dismissive to girls was a theory that dictated those same girls would want to fight harder for the guy's attention.

 

Personally, you just thought Trevor was messing you around.

 

"As tempting as that is Trevor, I have introduction to labs to prepare for with my new partner, so, you know, my date with a dead body kind of got pencilled in first," you said, sweetly, making him grimace. In truth, cadaver week hadn't even happened yet, but he didn't have to know that.

 

"Ouch, just got stood up for a corpse, that's a blow to my ego, but hey I get it, maybe I'll see you around?" 

 

You just shrugged, backing out of the grip he had on your shoulder - not fully realising when he'd moved into your space like that - it was awkward for you to be honest, because Trevor was playing the game nicer than guys like Javeed did back home, where they could be so rude and so blunt that you could just respond with a "Fuck Off," and it'd be justified - you really didn't know how to handle this little game. You really didn't feel like you belonged here, and it was moments like this when you felt like a fish out of water, struggling for air that you really didn't know what to do, or who was safe to turn to.

 

You were saved by a loud, booming baritone.

 

"Stop flirting with the ladies and hit the showers!" he barked - you glanced over his shoulder, and saw it to be the loud, tracksuit clad coach, that you could finally see now you were down and on the pitch. You felt your throat dry up when you looked at him, the guy was big, like - really insanely big, he towered over you easily but most people did, but he probably towered over even tall people. He was wide too - the kind of person who'd take up the entire width of a single-person bed but he wasn't out of shape, not by any means, the tracksuit was unzipped and he had a white tank-top taut across his chest.

 

Admittedly, you barely noticed his face until you realised not meeting his eyes was pretty rude, and craned your head up to meet his eyes when he walked over - and felt something drop in your gut. He had incredibly cold eyes - he was a lot like your college admissions officer in that regard, cold, dark eyes - and an incredible jawline under a salt and pepper beard which looked like it was slightly overdue a cut. He had to be in his 40s, but you'd guess pretty early in, but he was definitely the kind of guy you'd want on your sports team. 

 

Christ, he put all your overweight Physical Ed teachers back home to shame, he really did.

 

"I'm sorry, uhm, Coach - he called me over, but it's not important," you said sweetly though unsure how to address him, glancing at Trevor who felt a little daggered by your stare (and good - he should!) and it wasn't something that the coach missed either. "Y'know considering that I'm responsible for your laundry, you probably really should hit the showers and make my job a little less unpleasant, before I go out of my way to use the itchy detergent," you said dryly.

 

Trevor thought that the fact you were at least bantering while you snubbed him was a good sign, and held his hands up in surrender, turning his heel.

 

"Alright, alright I'm goin' ! Geez, rejected for a corpse and now getting the bumrush by my coach and a freshman, where's my life going?" Trevor sighed, making a decidedly melodramatic exit and making the coach roll his eyes.

 

"And you technically shouldn't be on the pitch," said the coach, though his tone was lower, and not an angry shout, you swallowed thickly when he addressed you, and quickly stammered out an apology - how could you not be intimidated by a guy with that kind of a build? 

 

You winced.

 

 

"Sorry Coach uhm..." glancing at the name emblazoned on the left breast of the surprisingly professional and probably custom made tracksuit, it did actually manage to look more expensive than most of your wardrobe - and it was literally just a tracksuit. "Coach Negan," 

 

His lips twitched as he heard his name in your curious accent, but only for a moment - but you really needed to leave, like, now - before you suffocated in the man's tremendous  _atmosphere -_ the guy was just kind of scary, and overwhelming - and you'd been overwhelmed by more than enough things this week.

 

"See you at the next game," he said - effectively ending the conversation and turning to follow Trevor, hearing the loud exhale you made as he did so - you didn't even know you'd been holding your breath. Some of the staff at a military academy could be quite scary, you decided - and you were someone who dealt with more than their fair share of scary back in England.

 

"Uh, yeah, maybe," you breathed, turning away and frowning, jumping back into the seats to go chase after Lorelai - she was your only way back to Unilocks!

 

"Lorelai, wait up!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

So, it was now Cadaver Week - which was probably going to be every other week now for what was known as your Mortuary Anatomy class, you were going to get a walk-through an on-site body farm, because apparently, Virginia PD coroners often sent their bodies to VMA's hospital, being that the university was actually the closest and most high tech place in immediate travel distance usually. Lindsay and Ravinder were partnered with each other, so unfortunately, that left you with the awkward blonde girl who tended to sit on her own. She wasn't a bad girl, you thought, honestly - she reminded you a little of yourself, a tad morbid, lonesome - head stuck in the textbooks.

 

Oh yeah, she was you - and you learned this was the first time she'd been separated from her sister, so she didn't seem to really know who to approach to be her lab partner.

 

"Uh, Samuels?" you said with a curious frown, calling her attention. "I don't have a lab partner, do you mind if we...?"

 

"Oh, no, not at all!" the girl gave you a surprised and somewhat relieved smile. "I didn't think I'd have one, I thought we might have an odd number or something, it's kind of big for a mortuary science class, don't you think?"

 

You glanced around and saw maybe twenty students, you didn't know if that classed as big or small in a university context, and simply shrugged with a small, easy-going smile.

 

"I can't believe we're going to see a dead body in semester one, I picked this university just for how good they are with this," she said with enthuse - maybe a little bit too much enthuse, but there wasn't anything wrong with it. There was something strangely sweet about the girl, admittedly. 

 

"Yeah I can't believe it either, I think it's because they get bodies in pretty often, the university hospital is apparently the biggest one in the state," you said with a shrug - before quickly adding "-I mean, I googled it, when I was signing onto the student health plan, we'll probably get to see all kinds of gnarly stuff,"

 

"I know!" she grinned "-isn't it exciting? By the way, you can just call me Lizzie, if you want. Samuels sounds kind of strange and I have a sister who attends here too so it could get confusing, she's uh, in a different major,"

 

"Gotcha,"

 

Just like that, you made another new, if slightly odd friend. She was after all, the only one who clapped when the sheet was pulled back over a long, mechanical table, and the body of a frozen-seeming middle aged man appeared, his lips utterly blue, his eyes wide, and frozen, a moustache glazed with... frost? It looked like he'd been frozen, and in a condition much colder than perhaps most morgues, you weren't sure, either way, the pallor looked about right for someone who'd died, but they didn't usually go blue after death, did they?

 

"Can anyone tell me how this man died? A bit mean to ask in semester one I know, but, who wants to give an educated guess, hm? It'll help if you've done the reading, but you might be able to guess without it, it is rather on the nose," it was Professor Mattius naturally, and when nobody stated what you thought was incredibly obvious, you raised your hand.

 

"I don't know how, Professor, or um, where. But, not being able to see any other injuries under the clothes, I think he froze to death long before he was put on ice in a morgue. I mean, I don't think he went into a cold chamber, so unless he's also not identified, he'll have gone to forensics and been frozen, but your lips don't go blue after death, only before,"

 

Professor Mattius gave you a wide grin.

 

Oh yes, you were definitely one of the freshmen to keep an eye on.

 

 


	2. A Whole New World

 

 

A few more things people didn’t tell you, that university was a completely different ballgame to secondary school and sixth form and even the work environment. It was entirely its own strange little world, its own massive subculture that wasn’t anywhere near so stifling as high school. That said, people still seemed divided by major or at least, by building if not in some sort of club, so it was cliquey, in its own little way. It might even be worse than some universities, due to the military comradery. You were rather glad to be on the outside of it to be honest, you found yourself functioning better independently and the only fun side of the military was if you were the one giving orders – you were very much the take charge and lead sort.

 

So you rarely actually had to wear your cadet uniform, and used the workaround every other Geek Building student did – so long as you were in a lab coat, it counted as uniform, and they weren’t too bad to wear if you had more than one. The cadets who were actually going to go into the armed forces had to get their hair sheared, had stricter regimens, and in a sense, led different lives almost. It seemed freshmen had it the worst, but the older years seemed a lot more relaxed, and more like college students. You also noticed from your allocation to Unilocks and not what was colloquially referred to as “the barracks,” that you had the easier life, even Lorelai, who only had to wear her cadet uniform marginally more than most, but for most the part, was free.

 

However, you had your own downsides – the sterilisation process was long, winded and meticulous – wholly necessary but at any given moment of the day you would be smelling like a hospital and found yourself starting to carry hand sanitiser like some sort of germaphobe after the long and terrifying chat about all the things you could contract off dead people. Even, how a few people died after being clumsy in their mortician work. After the first week of classes, you could definitely tell why Mort Sci students were given such a hard time. We were just fucking weird. All of us.

 

The military students led a different fucking life to you guys, and you were glad you could at least breath, and be a college student. They had their own frats, their own lifestyle, it was like VMA was utterly split, it might as well have been several institutions. The liberal arts students looked at the military students like they were another species and the only time you bonded was when you became cadets and all were squeezed into the uniform at orientation. After that? Completely different lives.

 

You wondered, briefly, how it wasn’t distracting, but then you learned the military students had their own sort of agenda and timetable that was so much stricter compared to yours, you were suddenly very glad you were in Geek Building. In fact, while crossover into other buildings was allowed, you weren’t allowed into the barracks or the strictly military areas for training, and if you were there, you needed a reason to be there. It was now that you finally realised the divide between VMA was massive, and that you were, in fact, housed in “VMA Science Institute,” and could thus, only ogle the cute boys running across the quad in military formation from the lab windows. It really did feel like different goddamn worlds.

 

One thing you noticed, was that you seemed to have chosen Lizzie over socialising with the rest of your class besides Ravinder and Lindsay, it wasn’t intentional, but it felt like the moment you sat beside your lab partner – people would move away.

 

Or if they were talking, they’d mostly address you, and Lizzie was quiet about it. It took you a while to realise what the fuck was going on. Sure, Lizzie was just a little odd, but you didn’t think it was a reason to alienate her. Her own sister didn’t even like her – or at least, she stuck with the art students from her major and only waved at her sometimes.

 

That’s when you heard it – from a girl in your Mort Sci class after you’d finished packing away and Lizzie left to go get some books she forgot in her dorm.

 

“Er  - can I help you, Katrina – was it?” you said puzzled.

 

“No, actually…” Katrina trailed off, retying her ponytail as she glanced nervously at the door, as if Lizzie might come back in. “I’m helping you, this probably sounds super rude, and I know how this is going to come across, but I’m just… I’m just trying to warn you, okay?”

 

Oh boy, your second warning this month in a new and scary place, first Trevor, now this.

 

“Warn me about what?” you sighed.

 

“Lizzie – she’s… well, she’s kind of weird, right?”

 

“We take Mort Sci, all of us are to some degree, weird,” you pointed out. Katrina nodded but chewed down on her lip. You were right, but the average Mort Sci student wasn’t _Lizzie-weird,_ and somehow, Katrina had to get that across to you. To her, you were the very innocent international student, and you were more at risk than most of trusting the wrong people.

 

Lizzie Samuels was “wrong people”.

 

“Not…not like her. I went to school with her, y’know – and she’s just…” Katrina shifted uncomfortably, before grabbing her college bag with a sigh.

 

“I can’t explain it without sounding like a bitch, but just… stay away from Lizzie Samuels outside of labs, okay? Just trust me. I have to go,”

 

Katrina stalked off, leaving you urgently and giving you something of a headache – because it was the second warning you’d had, and you had a really bad feeling in general. Too much had been going right, something would go wrong. It always fucking did.

 

* * *

 

 

The upsides to being in an absolutely freakish, strange university like this one was how purely well-funded it was, all of the facilities were top notch. The hospital was bustling with student doctors, the on-site morgue always had four people staffing it and apparently, the science department at VMA funded a travelling Body Farm that their PhDs on the PhD program would greatly benefit from. The Body Farm was basically a complicated portable laboratory system that was often moved in when forensics gave them the go-ahead onto unusual death cases and data would be collected about decomposition under highly unusual circumstance, then documented for medical journals for later use. It wasn't uncommon for PhD students to have the Body Farm get set up at a homicide and have their work and their specific, specialist autopsies reveal things that the average Joe-Schmoe coroner had no chance of detecting.

 

It was at this point, you were ecstatic to finish your undergraduate degree just to get onto the PhD program, which the Charles Rangel Scholarship would cover, provided you performed well enough in your other years to do so. You were ecstatic about it, it was why you and Lizzie got on so well, even Ravinder and Lindsay needed a break - but not you two. You lived and breathed the subject and very quickly made it onto Professor Mattius's list of potential research assistant helpers, which were usually culled from final year students - but - there was no rule saying the research assistant's couldn't have their own little lapdogs. Now, for you guys, that was basically unpaid internship in a way, but it classed as volunteer experience, it was vital job experience too depending on what you wanted to do with your degree, and it was a fantastic way to get on the Dean's List because it was rare that undergrads showed this level of promise.

 

Plus, it made the PhD students feel a little less like lackeys for the actual seasoned experts they were being taught under, like Mattius, Eichmann, and Liam - who were all incredibly distinguished in the field. They may as well have been the celebrities of mortuary science, if there were such a thing.

 

You could at least feel happy that your studies were going well, mostly because whenever Lorelai wasn't dragging you somewhere, you took your books with you everywhere - even on your laundromat shifts, where you were monotonously washing gym and varsity gear or managing the dry cleaning counter.

 

It was at lunch after you finished your shift that you heard the mumbling.

 

 _It's her. Y'know - Lizzie Borden had an axe - gave her mother forty whacks -_ _quick, quick, push the chair on another table, I don't want her to sit with us. She freaks me out._

 

Despite the extortionate amount of money that college costed, despite the amazing amount of upheaval and how big university life was on the whole, when it came to being divided by major, there was still cliquey bullshit, and you were appalled to hear it from your moderately sized class of Mort Sci majors - but it seemed  _everybody_ called Lizzie Samuels "Lizzie Borden," - after the serial killer, you didn't even know why. Apparently, Lizzie knew about it, and shrugged - saying it was something Katrina had stuck to her in middle school, and it just never left.

 

"Because I always knew I wanted to do Mort Sci before even she did, I guess it made me creepy? I never really figured it out, I guess I was a macabre kid," said Lizzie, blinking and brushing some of her blonde hair back. Fuck that, you scowled - how did that even make sense? Katrina was doing Mort Sci too! The two of you stood in the cafeteria and while it definitely didn't have anywhere as much of an importance as it did in high school, it still felt intimidating. The pair of you stood there, before you frowned at the group which you noticed Katrina was sat at, and you sighed before tugging Lizzie by the arm and dragging her to the food - meals first, stress about where to sit later.

 

You would have eaten in your dorm but, the dorms and the library weren't close to each other at all and you had a thirty minute gap before your last lecture, you just had Pathology with Liam and your brain felt ready to pour out of your ears which, with the right chemical compound inserted in the right place, you learned was actually possible. Go figure. 

 

You glanced around and saw the only free table and felt your stomach knot up briefly - there were spare seats at a small table that'd fit about four, where of course - a staff member was at that you recognised from the game. Staff had to eat too, you supposed - but it was an odd sight, until you remembered it was the Mort Sci students being in the social sciences building that looked strange - but everyone headed here if they weren't in the military building with their own mess hall, for the simple reason that the food served here was usually better than the one in the science building, as the outside caterers preferred to set up in Business, Law & Social Sciences rather than Geek Building. 

 

Still, what was the coach doing there? Well, it wasn't that weird, if the food sucked in the sports hub then it would make sense, it wasn't like you hadn't seen the odd athletic looking non-cadet milling around occasionally. You nudged Lizzie and took the lead, making the man glance up as your shadows fell on him.

 

"Hey again," you said, making the man put down his food. What was he eating? It seemed to be covered in something, protein powder, if you had to guess. He was still in his tracksuit, but his sleeves were rolled up, exposing long, muscular arms as the material strained around his biceps.

 

Oh yeah, he definitely put your old Physical Ed teachers to shame - pulling your eyes away so you could at least look at his own and pretend he was less intimidating sat down and therefore not towering over you, you gave him a nervous smile. 

 

"Hello ladies," said the man easily "-Need something?" he didn't seem to be too bothered by you coming up to him, but you felt like you were because his tone while easygoing and charming, seemed a bit heavy - like he was on a different level to you freshmen all together, and anything you had to say just made you a gnat.

 

"Could we sit here? We have thirty minutes before Microbiology and there is no way we're making it anywhere else in between and not be late - but there's nowhere else to sit..." you trailed off, feeling your stomach knot nervously. He nodded - not putting much thought into it really, Lizzie sat beside you, before her naturally airy sort of voice - gazing up vacantly - it was one of those things she tended to do that honestly didn't help her seem any less weird.

 

"Microbiology is tomorrow, same time. We have Body Restoration after lunch," said Lizzie in a soft daze, for some reason, you felt a bit awkward discussing your classes with the coach present, because, well, the coach was one of the normies - i.e not someone from Mort Sci or even the Science Institute in general. With the lab coat on, Negan at least understood your remark to Trevor - about standing him up to hang out with a corpse, and found himself smirking into his eggs with some vague amusement as he recalled it, even if he didn't know your exact major.  Looking at the pair of you, it must have been a strange sight, the absolutely jacked musclebound college team coach and two nerdy freshmen from Mort Sci who were weird even by Mort Sci standards. Lizzie looked a little bohemian under her lab coat, with brown, frayed trousers and a hideously coloured jumper that had a mandala pattern sewn into it beautifully, it somehow matched her distinctly airy nature.

 

Coach Negan didn't even know her and just from the one line she'd uttered could tell she was a designated  _space-case._

 

You didn't seem to be dressed worse than the last time he saw you, still with the beat up shoes, but you at least had slacks on without rips - a trend in kids he just didn't understand (why don't you just wear proper pants?) - that were delightfully narrow and well-fitted and a dark buttoned-down flannel which was only half tucked in. He got a better look at your face in the light - and found you to be the no makeup sort, with a naturally tired sort of hang under your dark eyes, with even darker, longer hair that had been tied into a high ponytail so it could be easily netted to work with bodies.

 

"Do we..? I thought...? God, sorry Lizzie, I'm on England time still I guess, I'm sleeping all weird and - urgh, it's not Friday," you grimaced, wiping your left eye and sighing deeply, you felt like you barely functioned, if you were honest. Between Lorelai, reading, the laundromat, your classes and the boxing meets, then the timezone changes, the homesickness, the unfamiliarity - you looked how you felt, to be honest. Plus, with your hormones out of whack and you needed to get on new piles of medicine under your strange American health plan, your body was having a shitty time adapting to change and you were pretty sure you were developing a stress fracture.

 

"No Ma'am it is not," said Negan smoothly, making you bristle - it wasn't like you forgot he was there, you just didn't expect him to partake in your conversation. "Because that's when my team's uniforms are due,"

 

You closed your eyes and you let out a long sigh, usually you dumped them in storage and personally wheeled the laundry hamper there, but with Lizzie gently reminding you that you had double Microbiology, you'd probably be getting them to him a little later and said as much to him. Which was usually fine, practice was usually at 2:00 - but it seemed fortune was in Negan's favour, as he would have been mildly out of sorts if he couldn't get ahold of the gym gear in time and would be wasting valuable time.

 

"I'll be needing them a little earlier than 1:00 tomorrow, the gymnasium is booked out for the cadets so I've gotta move some stuff around, it's a real pain in my ass," it was also the first time you heard a staff member swear, but his easygoing nature made you relax slightly.

 

Plus, you at least had something formal to talk about and Negan wasn't sat there like an awkward third wheel.

 

"Right, right, Cadre Week, but I have double Microbiology so I don't know that I'll be able to get them there earlier, I could..." you frowned, before pulling your messenger bag onto your knee and began rifling through it for a specific pocket where you kept your keys to prevent an incident like the last one happening when your dorm key dropped from your lab pocket.

 

"I mean technically I'm not supposed to be doing this but you're staff so I think it's okay as long as you don't um, tell my boss if I give you the laundromat key and you can go pick them up while I'm in Microbio?" you were wary, the last thing you wanted to do was break the rules, and you were pretty sure Elise would have your ass for handing the keys to the Priority Laundry Room over - because it was also where a fair few other valuables were kept from the average student population doing dry cleaning and uniform and civilian-wear washing.

 

"I won't tell if you won't, Cadre Week is an awkward one," especially with only one fucking laundromat in such a heavily divided university - but it seemed Coach Negan was a lot more easy to talk to when he didn't actually have his coaching hat on and was shouting at players on the field.

 

"Yeah, don't drop it off at reception in case Elise has my ass about it, I'll just find you after Microbio, Sports Hub right? Hard to miss, too many signs," you said, and the man nodded - taking the key from you which was instantly dwarfed by his larger hands.

 

"And I barely count as staff, so let's not risk it," Negan snorted, pocketing the key and giving you two a small, easygoing smile, before turning back to his food. He was incidentally charming without really meaning to, but it seemed like he was the kind of guy who could make a conversation with anybody, but his personality was so intimidating and overwhelming that it was easy to not get that far and see that he was actually a pretty chilled out guy, especially compared to some of the staff at VMA.

 

"I dunno, you seemed pretty important out there, I didn't even realise how much of a big deal college sports was. I mean, they warned me, and I thought I had a clue but I didn't," you murmured - while Lizzie took a book out from her bag and began to read it on her lap in between spooning bits of food into her lips, seemingly nonplussed by how antisocial it was.

 

"Er, don't mind Lizzie, she's...quiet," you added as an afterthought, only for Lizzie to let out a dazed "Hmm?" when you said her name, but not actually look up from her book, showing she wasn't really paying much attention, it seemed she was beyond excited for Mortuary Restoration, it was her favourite part of the field, apparently. Negan just shrugged a one-armed shrug, casually eating his food and noticing out of the corner of your eye how you practically bisected your own, and ate with a kind of surgical precision which he expected from a weird Mort Sci student, but you were so natural about it that it was odd to watch.

 

"Oh, you have no idea, turn out is usually bigger than that too for the varsity games against Virginia State U," he said casually - sports it seemed, was something Coach Negan was fine to talk about to awkward freshmen. Your eyes widened at the idea of it getting bigger - you'd lived near bus-distance of a stadium back home and you thought you had an idea for how big sports crowds got, but apparently not.

 

"Well that settles it then, America really does do everything bigger than England," you said faintly.

 

Negan resisted the urge to say 'and better' - naturally.

 

"English, right - I thought so when I heard you on the pitch," he smiled "Sorry if I seemed a little heavy-handed with ya, it was a harsh game and I was still in game mode, I thoughta might have frightened you slightly. Contrary to popular belief, I don't get off frightening freshmen, just - don't tell my team that,"

 

You stared at him, and felt your shoulders relaxing before you even consciously realised you were doing it - he had a strange, charming sort of veneer that you couldn't quite tell why it set you off as something you noticed. Maybe because it didn't align with the same man who screamed at Trevor to go shower and more or less ordered you off the pitch.

 

"It's fine, really," you said quietly "-you're just doing your job," you said, pushing the food around on your plate more than you were eating it. You had a lot to think about - you were getting paid tomorrow so you needed to think about taking up Ravinder on his offer to run you through the few basics that changed on American roads - you could drive in the UK, but you had to go over whatever test they subjected internationals who already had a full license to, then actually start looking for a mode of transport. It was that or, besides bumming lifts, start paying out the ass for taxis, and you couldn't waste your paycheck on that. Maybe a month tops, if you kept travelling to a minimum, but you couldn't do that if you wanted to go out and have a proper life without relying on Lorelai and her Mercedes.

 

Then you had to write to mum physically so she had something to hold onto, you promised her that - so you had to find an international mailing place or figure out the slew of stamps you'd need and just--- God. 

 

"It would help if you actually put the fork to your lips instead of push your food around," said Lizzie suddenly, almost making you jump - you forgot she was there for a second. "That's generally how eating works," - the coach resisted the urge to snort, and had phased out his interaction in favour of quickly shooting off what was likely work-related emails or something important from his phone, mostly so you didn't actually feel obligated to talk to him. 

 

"Huh? Oh - yeah, I just have a lot on my mind," you said with a frown, and at Lizzie's look, you glanced briefly at the coach, who seemed absorbed in his own responsibilities and reluctantly began spooning the - actually edible - meal of harissa chicken and rice into your mouth. 

 

"We haven't been here that long, what's on your mind that you're stressed already? Is this about the intern list?" said Lizzie curiously, with more self-awareness than you gave her credit for, it just seemed like the consistently high achieving students who often knew the answer and actually bothered to do all of the immense amounts of reading on the mandatory core and recommended reading lists, going so far as to make notes outside of lectures on it, would get on the intern list to assist the people on the PhD program for a taste of what it is to someday partake in a postgrad program. In truth, the coach was listening, but it was polite to at least pretend you weren't unless you had some actual input.

 

"No, I mean, a little but not really," you said with a frown. "I need to go to the hospital wing after lectures and find wherever the pharma counter is, Lin said she'd go with me with but she's been kind of off since we became lab partners. I don't know why, she pretty much immediately left me to work with Ravi anyway and it's not like I threw a fit over it," 

 

 _Wow, even the nerds had drama_ , Negan mused.

 

"I'll go with you, I know where it is, I've already been there to collect my prescriptions," said Lizzie airily, smiling at you. "I thought you were looking peaky - do you have Fresher's Flu?"

 

You groaned.

 

"That's an actual thing? I hope not, the amount of times we hose down and sterilise it'd be exceptionally cruel to make that a thing that happens to us. Oh my God, we're already shunned by the entire student body for being Mort Sci including from other people in Geek Building, giving us Fresher's Flu is just.... God proving he's dead or very, very cruel," you sighed, making Lizzie chew down on her lip to smother her giggles at your melodrama - giving the coach a sidelong glance and feeling a bit rude in leaving him not included in some form.

 

"So, if we smell like a hospital that's why," you quipped.

 

"Ah," said Negan, glancing up from his phone "-Mort Sci? What Major is that?" he asked curiously, seeing you cringe ever so slightly. You skirted around it with Lizzie and from the subjects discussed, you thought he might guess, but realised he had very little reason to be involved with the science institute or any of their majors, it stood to reason he didn't have a full clue on what it is you did exactly.

 

Thankfully, it was Lizzie who answered for you, but with her airy tones, you wondered if she made it sound creepier.

 

"Mortuary Science," she said easily "-we study the dead,"

 

Well, that was not what Negan expected to hear - that's when he felt both sets of eyes on him, and he realised that you two were waiting for some kind of reaction, but he was utterly nonplussed and didn't feel the need to forge one, but now things were starting to make sense - why they were talking about being shunned by the rest of the science majors, and why they didn't appear to be sitting with the others in lab coats. Negan noticed of course, he was an incredibly perceptive man, he noticed the movement of chairs, the heads that turned away when they walked through, it was admittedly rather high school of them and juvenile but at least, a lot more subtle in their alienation than it would be in a non-optional high school cafe.

 

So when you asked to sit there, he said yes, mostly out of curiosity.

 

"That's interesting," he settled on interesting. "A little fuckin' freaky," he added "-but interesting, someone has to do it, right?"

 

"Right," you muttered, of course, the coach thought it was freaky - how was poking around dead bodies not freaky. For some reason, something in your gut sank, you wished that wasn't the response that Mort Sci students got, but it was, but at least he hadn't gone on to mock you, or to ask you rudely-worded questions, which was something the rest of the student body was known for doing. Lizzie seemed to almost feel that his response had made you a little bit more downcast, when it truth all you did was lower your eyes to your plate and start poking your food again, but somehow, this was enough to tell.

 

"It's not an easy subject either, it's still a medical degree, you have to be really smart to even get on it and you're already one of the best in class, didn't you remember Professor Mattius? He said at least a third of people are going to drop out, they always do," said Lizzie, turning her eyes to you and giving you a small, oddly comforting smile, and began speaking as though she was trying to prove a point to the coach, because she was of the opinion Mort Sci should be far more respected than it was, and your downcast response got under her skin a little.

 

"You need an incredibly strong stomach and a lot of skill," said Lizzie insistently. "I had to take a preparatory class and basic biology with high scores and good references and that was really hard. I bet you had to do something similar back in England, right?"

 

What was...? Oh, now you got it, Lizzie was trying to make you sound impressive in front of the coach, because his casual disregard and the lack of respect she felt it was given, got under her skin. That, and, she wanted you to not feel like you were being written off as a freak doing a "freaky" subject. Lizzie didn't mind being called that but she thought that from your downcast response, you might be.

 

You felt yourself blushing under two intense stares, the coach's was naturally like that but it was odd that Lizzie seemed down to Earth enough to give you that look.

 

"Uhm, I did really well in my GCSEs, I think that might be a GED to you, I don't know so don't ask me but I did triple science. I stayed on and did A-Levels which you do if you get between As-Cs generally, which... I guess the clue's in the name. I did triple sciences," you shrugged.

 

At the blank look Lizzie gave you, you remembered that wasn't a colloquial term here that was automatically understood and explained.

 

"Biology, Chemistry and Physics on top of core science, at A-Level I was one of those kids who did the extra mile and did four subjects instead of three and nearly died," you rolled your eyes "Bio, Chem, Physics and my choice was further maths or law so I did law,"

 

Lizzie looked at you weirdly.

 

"Law? Why - what... law?" she said again, in confusion.

 

"The American legal system is loosely based off of the English one with a lot of big changes, everything I learned is largely useless but if you looked at our program we have whole sections dedicated to Mortuary Law. I looked at our books, it's easier to digest if you have a basic background," you pointed out, between bites of chicken.

 

Lizzie stared at you, because she still couldn't fathom such a boring choice.

 

"Hey between law or math, I pick law, maths gives me a headache and dropping physics made me happy, that's why I'm not a 'real doctor' and I work with people who are already dead," you said, complete with air quotes and getting a small chuckle out of the coach.

 

It was actually the first time you heard him laugh, and you thought it was a nice thing - to be laughed with rather than laughed at.

 

"I hate math too," said Lizzie after a moment "-you know, I'm starting to feel slightly inadequate now, 'cos I'm guessing your grades were great too,"

 

You shrugged, you worked hard for them but admitting you had great grades felt like admitting to being an obnoxious smartypants.

 

"You, are a smartypants," said the coach, almost accusingly, but he had a smile on his face as he did, a strange glint of appreciation in his eyes as he pointed at you with his fork. "And it sounds like you both worked hard to be here,"

 

"So a word of advice, from an older person," he said shortly, glancing at the filled tables with lab coats and liberal arts students. "If people are giving you a hard time about your major, fuck 'em,"

 

You almost choked on your rice and Lizzie found herself grinning.

 

"Really, fuck 'em! Fuck 'em and the horse they rode in on, you might not even see some of them if it's as hard as it sounds and the drop out rate is that high. You're in college, it's not high school. I taught high school," the coach admitted - making you bristle in surprise "-by the time you get here, you've served your time. You don't need to be putting up with petty bullshit, you pay too much for that shit,"

 

He finished up his food and began wiping his hands, piling the plates and putting his phone in his pocket.

 

"Anyway I have to go prepare the gymnasium, you two ladies have a good rest of your evening," he flashed his most charming smile.

 

"For the record, your major is fucking morbid," he leaned down as he picked up his tray, giving you a good look into those cold, dark eyes. "But it's pretty fucking cool,"

 

And with that, he left, and Lizzie leaned back in her chair, glancing at you with a rather victorious looking smile.

 

"Not everyone hates Mort Sci, sometimes you just need to explain some things, and they can at least appreciate it's hard work even if it's not their thing," she said conversationally "-and he went from thinking you're freaky, to thinking you're a smartypants. I'd say that's an improvement."

 

"Great, now we just have to do that to the rest of the student body," you said, sighing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

So, Lizzie was apparently on the fourth floor of Unilocks and she had a single room, which you envied a little with how much of Lorelai's stuff ended up everywhere, but as roommates went, Lorelai was pretty nice - and you had to admit, after looking at some of her wardrobe that you had free reign access to, it definitely had its perks. Ravinder and Lindsay still let you into study with them, because in truth, the four of you made an absolute powerhouse, it felt like they didn't really want to hang out with Lizzie as much as you did, because they didn't really live and breath the subject the way she did. But you did - however, you were apparently, "less weird about it," - personally, you didn't know how Lizzie was. Sure, she was excitable, but was it really that bad?

 

Christ, Professor Mattius had peeled back the sheet off of a cadaver this week and opened with the line "Abra Cadaver!" and personally you didn't think it could really get any worse than that, so how could they judge Lizzie? It seemed that Lorelai understood though, when you explained it anyway, and it helped that she wasn't in the Mort Sci circles so whatever Katrina had been saying didn't hold much water with her, nor did she particularly care for the in-house bullying. Lindsay also didn't make the intern list, of course, there was still time, months and months of it in fact, the list wouldn't be solidified until semester two anyway and you wouldn't be working with the PhDs until your second year, the fact was - you and Lizzie were just on it early. Ravinder was promising too, but Lindsay just didn't have that same kind of enthuse as you guys, so you could already feel the group start to crack.

 

Body Restoration was, in a word, fascinating. Morticians had the job of restoring almost every kind of injury, even ones you didn't think of - you could cover bruises and cuts with postmortem makeup, that was a module of its own, but the full breadth of how much they did just to give families than ten minutes they get at an open-casket to give them peace was mind-blowing. You could see why Lizzie was so excited for this part of the course. Beheadings could be sutured and then those sutures covered, bodies torn to shreds, meticulously put back together, specialised wax, putty and plaster of Paris with full-on skull reconstruction in the case of someone who shot themselves in the head. Oh yeah, they had pictures on the lecture slides - the professors on this course, even at first year, made absolutely no bones about what was ahead.

 

"With a very good mortician, there are very few things that cannot be fixed!" was a phrase that had been burned into your mind, along with the various supplies that could reattach limbs by rebuilding bone and muscle, even people that had been burned alive sometimes had open-caskets, there were very few cases where the state of the body made it too painful to bare even with some preparation from the morticians. Ravinder then actually came to your dorm and actually gave you some of his learner's books he had on-hand from when he took his driver's test. He even offered to show you a few things in the parking lot in case you were nervous, which left you with the rest of the evening to start looking at vehicles and the application process.

 

You could probably sort it out by next week, you mused - your paycheck came tomorrow, you had double Microbio only, and then you'd have to go to the Sports Hub to pick up your work key off of the coach, and try to Skype your mother. Again. You wanted to sleep - but the stress fracture that you could feel in your left wrist was really annoying you, and so you found yourself searching for Mattius, as his office hours were finally open and you could ask him about the fucking intern list and why it was such a big deal.

 

When he wasn't there, and there was no note on the door, you thought you might look around the hospital wing - in a medical jacket, nobody really questioned it. You caught sight of the man from the back and called his name out, walking a bit quicker as he turned around and revealed two familiar figures which became clearer as you walked over.

 

This was turning into a freaky sort of week - it was the officers from the game.

 

"Professor Mattius! I was looking for you - but you look busy so I can come back," you said shortly, settling next to him when you caught sight of the sheriff and his deputy. The professor turned to you and gave you a considering sort of look, and Shane caught sight of you and smiled instantly.

 

"Hey you," he said, some warm familiarity in his tone.

 

"You two know each other? I hope you aren't out making trouble already, you're only in your first semester," said the Professor lightly, only for you to chew your lip and shake your head negatively.

 

"He was at our last game, it's nice to see you again deputy," you wondered if it was awkward because you'd yet to text him, but in truth, you'd just been really busy, and hadn't really thought about it.

 

"Likewise, I'm just sorry about the circumstances," said Shane, and when it became apparent that you two had some sort of rapport, the professor made a snap decision to not have you leave, and placed a hand on your shoulder, keeping you where you were.

 

"Yeah, we're here on business, we couldn't run some prints so we had to come and use your facilities," Rick explained shortly, and you nodded, before the professor decided to step in.

 

"This is one of my most promising first years," he said, carrying on despite the fact you turned bright red as he gave your shoulder an encouraging squeeze, this was somehow worse than Lizzie trying to big up Mort Sci and make you talk about yourself, because this was the head of your course singing your praises early on to law enforcement, vaguely, you realised this was probably good for your career. Whatever your career ended up being, in truth you didn't know, you had a vague aim to be a medical examiner but in truth you just wanted something that paid well and hopefully kept you in America, then maybe you could bring your mother over and finally be able to give her the life that she never had. "We're a little busy here tonight, our medical facility runs forensics for Virginia PD if needed,"

 

You frowned, and glanced up at Shane, then Rick, then Mattius in confusion.

 

"But can't most morgues run prints? Why all the way here?" you asked before you could stop yourself - Mattius glanced at Shane, then Rick - cogs visibly turning behind his eyes.

 

"You can shadow while my PhDs assist if you're free for time," said Mattius shortly, making your eyes go impossibly wide "-it's quite alright officers, I believe this will be invaluable to her education,"

 

No - fucking - way. You really wished you'd have woke up Lizzie and brought her along, because she'd have been fucking stoked. In truth, Mattius was going to use this moment to measure your response to being put in actual working environment even though you were a first year, albeit an incredibly overzealous one, and see whether you deserved that spot on the intern list this early into the year. He freely admitted he thought he might be jumping the gun, but he always had an incredibly sharp eye for the first years to keep an eye on, that was for sure.

 

"There's no fingerprints," said Shane after a moment, once getting the approval from the professor. 

 

"No dental records, no nails," Professor Mattius added "-the fingerprints were shaved off and the hair follicles don't pull up much, we'll do some blood work but they might not show up on a database,"

 

"Some people are completely clean, you don't get it a lot but sometimes," Shane explained, preening under the fact he now had your utmost attention - because he did.  You were going to be involved in a case! Even if it just meant staring haplessly while actual professionals did all the work, it was still amazing, and an opportunity unique to VMA, that was for sure.

 

"Some people have no arrests, no hospital trips in this state, or even dental work sometimes, not even a parking ticket - that can make getting an ID on our John Doe pretty difficult. We brought him here for a proper autopsy and whatever it is you can do, but we aren't hoping for much, whoever did it did a thorough job," said Shane with a shrug.

 

"It's one of the uglier homicides I've seen in a while," said Rick after a moment "-we don't get stuff like this that often, but if you guys can pull up anything, it'd be a huge help,"

 

"Wow, the fingernails too? Someone really didn't want you guys to get an ID on them," you said with a frown - it was probably going to be an ugly sight but probably not as bad as some of the before and after shots you'd had in Body Restoration. "Toenails too I'm guessing,"

 

Mattius nodded, and you brought up a question which he usually expected from his PhDs, and truthfully, that neither police officer thought of.

 

"So.... do you think it happened postmortem or while they were alive?"

 

"Well, how would you tell?" it was Shane who asked, mostly because he was curious, as this was generally medical examiner purview, and Mattius was going to answer - until you opened your mouth, being that you read about this not a few moments prior and were hungry to impress him.

 

"There's ways to tell if someone was hurt pre or postmortem, usually in their bleed, kind of injuries - you can make an educated guess - is the John Doe with Pathology now?" you asked curiously - feeling yourself bubble with a strange misplaced excitement, not that someone was dead, but that there was a  _case,_ and a strong chance you could see mortuary science in action on an unusual death.

 

Mattius smiled, patting your shoulder before letting it go and deciding that he had in fact, probably made a good choice.

 

"Well done, and yes, we're doing a full autopsy in the lab, Dr Eichmann is heading it, if we can pick up absolutely anything we'll send it to you and see if you can make any use out of it, you have the department's full support," said the professor shortly, before nodding approvingly at you.

 

"Postmortem by the way, there wasn't much in the way of a bleed around the fingers, so postmortem most likely, now if you don't mind gentlemen, I shall have to wrap this up so I can help my lost little firstie," he chortled, making you scowl and almost pout.

 

"Maybe I'll see you around," said Shane, smiling at you, and hinting at the fact you had his number, you just smiled back nervously and waved the men off.

 

"Maybe you will,"

 

With that, they wrapped up - and you found yourself in Mattius's company, finding yourself being walked to the autopsy rooms, a place you had yet to go. Pathology in action was pretty gory, you knew that much, involving removing organs and testing them individually for all sorts of things, You found yourself walking beside the professor, finally feeling the edge come off and the heat fade from your face, you only really came to ask about the intern list and whether you got to assist the PhDs or just shadow them, and why Lindsay wasn't on the list, you didn't expect to end up being able to shadow an active autopsy.

 

Professor Mattius very clearly picked his favourites, but he only did it with students who went out of their way to be the best in their field, he was a man of meritocracy, and because of that, you had his attention.

 

So, this was a baptism of fire for your first month in university you decided, the moment your eyes laid on a dead man laying on a surgical table, Caucasian, mid-forties probably, shaved head, no jaw, and no nails, with his insides completely opened with surgical precision, and various organs getting bagged by your professors and some medical examiners you didn't recognise, and you were fucking  _excited._

 

Yep. No way around it. Mort Sci students were just weird.

 

* * *

 

 

Lizzie was admittedly, a little jealous, but excited. Very excited. You never found out why Lindsay wasn't on the list, because it turned out watching someone put a liver in a plastic bag and then place it on a set of scales was very, very distracting and a quick way to forget your original purpose, but you texted her and told her what happened when you returned to your dorm. Lorelai probably wouldn't have been filled with joy if you told her what you had got to witness, not really partake in, but witness - it would probably freak her out, to be honest, but you closed your eyes, and heard the words that the football coach said in your head.

 

For a musclebound college coach, he was actually a pretty insightful guy.

 

_'For the record, your major is fucking morbid - but it's pretty fucking cool,'_

 

Yes. Yes it was - fuck anybody who said otherwise, you huffed, pulling your bedsheet over you. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day - Microbiology, getting your license with any luck, checking out rides, finally having money (hallelujah!) and getting your work key back, maybe Lizzie would like to hang out with you?

 

OH!

 

Or....

 

_Maybe now you have money you could call Deputy Cutey?_

 

It's not like it had to be serious, you told yourself -  _it could be a date -_ and anyway, what was your other option? Trevor "I remember you exist when I feel like it," Matthews? Anyway, you could look like not-a-total cheapskate and go on an actual date! You never thought you'd be spoilt for choice, but it kind of felt like you were. Besides, it was obvious Officer Shane cared a whole lot less that you were a Mort Sci student and the PD had to work with your department anyway, so if anything, he probably respected your choice of study.

 

Maybe you could frame it as needing some help getting around, he said you could call him if you were stranded or something, right? Besides, if you actually had something to do, maybe that'd make it less awkward than just going out and - shit, what did middle-class people do as a date, anyway?

 

"Go for a meal, somewhere nice. Oooh, you should get him to take you to Ruchi's - it's really nice, besides he can afford it," said Lorelai - sitting on your bed as you stared at the little slip of paper with Shane's number on it. 

 

 "But he's like, _old,_ and the deputy sheriff - couldn't it make things kinda difficult or awkward if it doesn't go well? I've seen cop TV shows and I know what happens," you deadpanned, making Lorelai snort.

 

"Besides, he didn't actually ask me how old I was, I'm not even twenty one and you need to be twenty one to do fucking anything here, wouldn't he feel weird bringing me out in public? I mean he's the deputy, they're under more scrutiny than most,"

 

"He can say no," said Lorelai with an eyeroll "It's not your job to think about that stuff, besides, he clearly didn't care when he gave you his number, and it's not like you're getting married or something, just...draft a text and I'll look at it - OH! And you can totally borrow something of mine, in fact, I insist you do," she gushed.

 

Oh God, you felt like you were in some shitty teen drama, you really were - in truth you were just the dirty little kid sitting in front of their ancient television with a crack running through it, watching this kind of life unfold out for others, it still almost didn't feel like it was yours.

 

But nonetheless, you drafted out a text.

 

_Hi Shane_

_It was really cool seeing you today. Sorry I haven't texted sooner. Uni has me SWAMPED, but I need to sort out my ride and how I'm getting around for the next 3 yrs and a bunch of other stuff. But I have no idea where anything is and if you're not super busy if you could help me? I really don't know where anything is and I haven't even had a chance to leave campus besides the game since I got here and I feel kind of bad asking my roommate to drive me everywhere. She's swamped too :(  We could probably go and grab a bite to eat later too?_

_BTW - good luck with your John Doe x_

"A bit wordy, but like you said, he's old, so, it probably helps," said Lorelai with a grin "-send it off, you sound like a helpless little puppy, the guy will come barrelling in like a knight in shining uniform, go on, doitdoitdoitdoit!" she egged you on until you swallowed your nervousness and hit send.

 

You two sat on your bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling when the pair of you laid on your backs.

 

It was nice, you thought - having a friend you could do this with, it usually felt like it was for everybody else except you, you never got to have these kinds of problems before, your problems were usually "How much do we have for the week?", "Who has dad pissed off today?" and "Is mum okay?" - it was strange that you got to have such a....normal problem. You even laid on your bed and bitched about Trevor a bit, because he did seem pretty nice, but his attitude toward Mort Sci was something you needed to get over and he needed to talk to you properly, you said.

 

"Well you're probably not the only girl he's texting, he's a frat boy," sighed Lorelai "-so who says you can't text multiple boys? I say text Trevor and make him pay for the damn movie,"

 

You grinned. Oh yeah, you were really starting to like Lorelai - but could you really do that, just, use someone?

 

"It's not using, it's dating, one date doesn't mean put a ring on it, geez," said Lorelai with an eyeroll "-you're super high strung,"

 

"I'm a med student," you deadpanned, as though that explained everything, making her laugh uproariously. "Whose idea of going on a date before now was going to McDonalds then getting a bottle of the expensive amaretto from the off-license to end the night,"

 

Lorelai snorted.

 

"Oh honey, we're really going to have to work on you," she sighed melodramatically "-that just won't do. It won't do at all."

 

Just at that moment, your phone bleeped with a text - and Lorelai quickly snatched it, making you squeak in surprise at the woman's catlike reflexes. She cleared her throat with a dramatic sort of flair, before proceeding to scroll through the text, a wide grin stretching out on her face as she read.

 

"Hey, good to hear from you - _oooh a smiley face!  -_ I have a rest day coming up this coming Sunday but not a lot of places are open, or we can do later this week on Saturday. I'll clear a day for you and give you the full Shane Walsh Tour Experience, you might even have fun. I know some dealerships too so we can probably get it all sorted, I'm happy to help out a damsel in distress. Just let me know when is good for you and I can pick you up in my cruiser from the parking lot,"

 

"Well," Lorelai added "-he doesn't mince his words, didn't even put a kiss on the end of it, the scoundrel," she huffed.

 

"Whatever," you sighed, rolling onto your front and burying your face into your sheets. "At least I have a ride to the dealerships, now I can think about how long tomorrow is gonna be," 

 

Microbiology, Sports Hub, find the pharma counter with Lizzie, then try to get your license thing sorted if Lizzie or Lorelai could give you a ride - and then spend the rest of the evening looking at dealerships and places online and do general car research so that you could manage something cheap with your first paycheck when Officer Shane picked you up (hopefully he knew some cheap places....you hoped) - and maybe some thrift stores so you didn't have to keep borrowing things from Lorelai, but in truth, it's not like you had much room - but you could also afford to get your laptop repaired - as soon as you found a place. You really were fucking lost here. Up shit creek if not for the kindness of strangers, if you were honest.

 

God, being an adult was fucking stressful.


	3. The Daily Dirty Grind

 

 

His career was on the up, going from gym, ping-pong and lazy, slow, cheeky little shitbaskets to teaching college sports was a big deal, a huge deal. Monumental. A sign of change in his life, that things could at least keep moving even when his life stopped. It started with taking down the pictures, because while he wasn't a massive picture guy, he had a few, maybe five - she probably had more, but her family took them all. Didn't blame them, what was Lucille doing wasting her time with a guy like him? Still, she'd be proud of the upward mobility, it wasn't every gym teacher that managed to teach one of the more popular college sports teams. For someone who religiously followed this shit, it was something of a dream come true, short of actually playing on the team.

 

He had his shot in his youth, he blew it - but that was fine, because he ended up exactly where he fitted best. Coach Negan's life was a downward spiral for a while, he spent more than a few evenings in a local dive bar called The Roach - which was fitting, but the place wasn't actually dirty, it just had a grimy sort of atmosphere. It suited Negan just fine, it was like a relic out of time, really - the kind of place he could picture his father drinking at, if he was honest.

 

He couldn't shift his fucking house, his realtor was insufferable, he only sold about half of the shit he wanted gone - he never liked Lucille's choice in furnishing - his apartment was nice, but it was a pain in the ass to move in there. He wasn't a guy who owned that much stuff, but he found himself unmotivated to stop living out of his boxes, being that he owned little. He did most of his activities at VMA or when he was out, so sans a generously sized television to watch the game, he didn't unpack much. It was all rather depressing, really - so he spent most of his time being outdoors. Something about milling the campus and seeing students forced into military gear running around reminded him that the situation could always be worse, at least he didn't answer to people in the same way, he didn't think he could stand it.

 

Being the coach, he had people pay little attention to him when compared to his players, but he was of importance, a cog they needed to function, while having enough freedom to do as he pleased.

 

Oh yes, this wasn't a bad life. He watched his players run indoor track as a warm up, cardio was important, and he'd work them through if he had to - he wasn't going to have them lose their shit around half-time from exhaustion, no. He didn't know what the last coach was doing, what, sitting around and jacking off all day? Just because about half of them were military students who got their work out through that didn't mean they all did, the guy shirked, pure and simple. His morning was shaping up to be an average one, his hangover was going, his star players seemed to be keeping up decently.

 

The squeaking of trainers hitting the gymnasium floor was broken by a dull clacking, rhythmic - he instantly recognised it as heels. He thought it might be a staff member from social sciences, they were the heels sort, there were few skirts who were - he was surprised to see it was a student. He recognised you - as laundry girl, he still didn't know your name - but he knew everything that Trevor called you. Trevor was one of his players - and it was easy to see why he was hung up on you, even if it seemed rather casual, and Negan was sure he saw him hitting on multiple girls. It was just how college was, Fi Kappa Sci being no different to any other frat either - of which the non-military students were all a part of.

 

_English, Spice Girl, Best Ass of Freshman Class._

 

He figured spice girl was a crack at your ethnicity, and admittedly, when he heard that last one, he took a glance - that was the other thing about college teaching, the skirt was legal.

 

Of course, he also knew what the others had to say about his choice of a Mort Sci to be his Freshman Fling - he didn't understand the stigma of it fully since he had little to nothing to do with the Science Institute until you sat by him that day with your friend, Lizzie. Weird, he knew her name, but you, who did the team's laundry - he still didn't. He glanced and saw you wearing your hair loose, it was long and dark, and when not in a high ponytail, coursed down your lab coat and down your back a little - it was a shame about all the rules and regulations, and instantly as you entered his space, the smell of peppermint struck him first - with the strange, sterile undercurrent.

 

It was sharp, but rather nice - he supposed it was that sterilisation process, you were stuck in labs a lot working with dead people, it didn't mean you had to smell like it, he supposed.

 

You were heading towards him, hands stuck in your lab coat pockets with a slow, clicking walk - until Trevor stopped running, and whistled at you.

 

"Hey English!" he panted, now, you could put up with acquaintances calling you that, but the second your name was a contact in someone's phone, you generally expected better and from the unimpressed look on your face, it showed. You turned your heel and gave him a look, standing halfway between both of the men in distance, you stood still, letting Trevor pant his way over as he gave the coach a desperate "10 minute break" hand signal, only for Negan so scoff, and hold up five fingers - as if he'd let them get off that easily just because a bit of skirt entered the room.

 

"Trevor, I bothered to remember your name, which is valuable space that could be kept by something useful, the least you could do is remember mine," you sighed, folding your arms under your chest "-without having to look at your phone,"

 

And naturally, he wouldn't have his phone on him, being in training gear and all, and Trevor had the nerve to look sheepish at least, Negan didn't bother trying not to listen in, because he'd freely admit, he was pretty entertained by the lives of the student body. It was like a free soap opera you didn't have to pay for, in fact, just last week he watched his quarterback get slapped by a cheerleader for having a dirty quickie in the disabled toilets of the swimming pool sector of the hub. That kinda shit was just fun to watch, better in person - real life.

 

"Now that's not fair, I remember your name," and to his credit - he was kind of close, he just mispronounced it, which wasn't the worst thing - and you corrected it.

 

Huh, now Negan knew your name - definitely Indian, he mused, but not hard to pronounce, but easy to mistake if you're recalling from vague memory.

 

"Look, I have maybe ten minutes tops, my roomie is waiting in the car park and I have to collect my work key off coach - for your gear, since you needed it early and - I don't know why I'm explaining myself," you rolled your eyes "-what'd you need Trevor?"

 

He panted, and wiped the top of his forehead with the end of his shirt, you glanced away - it was probably one of the favourite things you liked that boys did that you really enjoyed, it was one of the reasons you enjoyed working out with the lads back home. You didn't have much in the way of a fancy gym but your school had an excuse for one which had been the one you used during A-Levels. Trevor looked at you, and he smiled - looking you up head to toe when he realised you came up just a little taller than usual and that you were wearing heels.

 

Under the lab coat, he saw you wearing a pair of black leggings and a long shirt that stretched down - a shirt-dress? Shress? Is that what they called them? It was thin and deep red - a deep almost black sort of red, with - as his sharp eye noticed, a lacy strap underneath from the bra you had on. For a no makeup girl, you brushed up pretty decently - Trevor thought.

 

"Oh, you look--" he glanced up at your face, your distinctly unamused expression but the way your lips curved into a small half-smile and your eyes, though slightly sunken - was it the tiredness? Were large, and expressive, like he could read all the emotions going through you. Sexy wasn't the word, though he definitely wouldn't say that you weren't - but he noticed the little shirt-dress had a bow right at your breasts - he was too busy looking at the bra peeking underneath to notice, and as he dragged his eyes back to yours, his smile reflected yours. "Cute," - because the bow was very cute. On your very cute chest. Cute.

 

"Lorelai's?" he gestured to the dress, and you nodded - glancing away from his stupid, handsome face.

 

"Is it that obvious?" you felt totally out of your skin in heels, you owned exactly one pair and the last time you'd worn them was that club in Shoreditch - you were in Lorelai's "Clothes That Are Too Small," which she had designated your wardrobe, whilst reminding you that you still had borrowing reign of her other things.

 

You could see how this was a bit small, it felt like it hugged you a bit.

 

"Oh, just a little," he said, still smiling but now his eyes carrying a little mirth to them. "But it's fine, it's cool - you're cool, I mean, it suits you way better than it suited her,"

 

"Easy, she's still my friend," you said dryly, and Trevor resisted the urge to wince, usually girls liked being told they looked better than other girls, but it seemed that didn't fly so well with you. "So - anything else to tell me other than I look cute because I really do have things I gotta..." you trailed off, glancing over his shoulder at the coach, then back to him.

 

"I mean, the original Kong is still showing," he exhaled "-and I know I've been... I mean, shit, okay, I'm still acting like a jockstrap, but you've gotta throw me some rope here," he groaned - because he did get a text off of you, after Lorelai's egging, but it boiled down to one simple and utter "Maybe," - just that. That one word. Maybe. "You're not making this easy, you even left the party early and stopped coming,"

 

You balanced your weight to your hips, feeling strange in these heels despite having walked around your dorm room in them the night before and then put them straight on again after Microbio - but how fucking long did a woman have to walk in heels before they hurt less? You could walk in them fine, dance in them even, but God were they just not fun in terms of pain.

 

"Am I supposed to be easy, Trevor?" you said sarcastically, eyes flicking to one of his team mates who was clearly doing the listening as he jogged a little closer - honestly - complete amateurs, it's not like the gymnasium didn't make it echo anyway. "English Breakfast, Eggs-Over-Easy?" at first, it didn't register where you were going with this, but slowly, the smile started to drop off of his face.

 

Oh.

 

"Easy-English, yeah I'm not totally oblivious," you resisted the urge to call him a dippy twat for thinking you were totally oblivious to the rumblings of Fi Kappa Sci when your roommate was Lorelai "-When Lorelai is your roomie it's kind of hard not to hear about what people are saying,"

 

"I'm sorry - that's not me, it's just... guy talk," said Trevor lamely.

 

You sighed.

 

"Look Trevor, my panties ain't in a bunch over it, I'm not even losing an inch of sleep over it,"  _I have a date on Sunday_ you wanted to say, but held back, you doubted he'd be jealous, or even care. "-Believe me, you think that's the worst I've heard? Shit, mate - the twelve year old's on my old council estate can give you a run for your money,"

 

"Point made," said Trevor with a raised brow, amused by both your candour and mannerisms, and for a Mort Sci student, you were really rather charming, he thought. In fact, something about your lack of grace in your words, your bluntness, the fact that all the suaveness was shaved clean off your words when you could just as easily be formal and charming as the day he met you. He thought you were charming, and clearly you were much more tightly wound with it being your first day, this was relaxed in comparison. Though, he mused, you were still clearly a tightly wound sort of girl.

 

"I'm a blip on the fratscape, you guys talk shit about all girls, I get that, what I don't get is why you text back at all then radio silence face to face. Guys say girls are complicated? See it from my end a second, this weird little game you're playing? I don't get it, we don't play it. Not where I come from. So fine, whatever. I'll go see Kong with you, okay? On the condition you stop twatting me about, the cognitive dissonance between you and your messages, you in private and then you in public is giving me a headache and I'm too busy for that shit," you said bluntly.

 

Wow.

 

Trevor couldn't help but burst into a laugh, followed by a smile - his ears burning, oh, that had been a deserved telling off, and he could hear a few of his friends making teasing noises in the background as they ran track, and he just smiled down at you, and said he'd text you the show times.

 

"Alright, I'll stop..." his lips twitched as he quoted you " 'twatting you about' " before giving you a strange hand gesture which was a sort of salute you didn't recognise.

 

"Scout's honour!" only for one of his friends to shout as they ran past that he was never a scout, making you snort, and raise a brow at Trevor before shaking your head and sighing.You told him you couldn't do this weekend, but next would be fine - with Lorelai's words swirling around in your head.

 

_It's dating. Not using._

 

 

Fucking hell, boys gave you a headache - you rolled your eyes, and left Trevor as the coach held up his hand impatiently, reminding him that his five minutes were actually up. Now, Negan strived to be the "cool teacher" - and he was, but he also had to balance that between being a sadistic hardass, and making these students football ready. Professionally ready. Careers were made off of what happened here, he knew that much - some people wouldn't even be in college without the sports scholarships, so he was obligated to push them to their limit.

 

But to be honest, he'd do that shit for fun more than caring about their livelihoods, if he was honest. Negan watched as you walked over to him, noticing how paced and careful your movements were with your heels clacking against the lacquered wood of the gymnasiums floors. His eyes went to the heels first - they were the same red as the shirt dress, he mused, contrasting the black leggings, and the sharp white of the lab coat. He glanced at your thigh - catching a warble, he wondered briefly if that was you struggling to walk in those high heels, they were long and thin, but no, he noticed you consistently had it. It was very minor too - almost a gimping movement but not quite, very subtle. He doubted most picked up on it, but he had a sharp sort of eye, and he was rather familiar with injuries, large and small - and vaguely remembered something about prescriptions you said yesterday when you were with the space-case.

 

"Hey Coach, sorry about disrupting, I said I'd nip round for the key?" you said, smiling up at him. You had two dates - count that,  _two dates,_ and you'd gotten paid, and it was pretty good pay considering how much the Charles Rangel Scholarship covered, and you were going to get your license, and Lizzie went with you to get your medication, and you were finally going to start feeling right. Normal, even.

 

"Ah yeah, shit, give me a sec, got a lot of pockets," said Negan, after remembering he didn't actually remember what pocket he put it in, began unzipping the ones on his tracksuit and digging around for the key. He purposefully kept it separate because as staff he had too many fucking keys to deal with as it was and didn't want to attach it to his ring of keys and lose it forever and make you have to go through them to find it again. 

 

There was a silence besides the sound of running and shoes squeaking against the gymnasium floor, before he realised you were just standing there awkwardly, shifting from side to side.

 

"You going somewhere nice?" he didn't really care too much, but he felt a need to fill the silence, and it was the first time he'd seen you in something not dress-down casual and marginally nice. Even your hair looked a nicer when it was loose, even though it wasn't really styled or anything.

 

"Huh? Oh!" you glanced down at yourself, yeah Trevor commented on it so it wasn't surprising the coach noticed too. "I'm gonna pick up my license so I can drive here. I'm England-legal so... I just need it so people aren't stuck ferrying me around, and I'm gonna look at some rides this weekend too," 

 

Ah, so that was your weekend plan that was so busy you had to exclude Trevor, he mused - the college drama continued.

 

"Got any of that Old Man Advice to dispense on that by the way?" your lips twitched, and he glanced up at you in surprise, his hands digging around his pockets, finding everything but the fucking key. "You were pretty good with it yesterday, was just wondering if you had any pointers. I've got like, three Craigslist guys, and an autoshop to check out because rental costs are bullshit," 

 

Negan raised a brow, and gave you a crude once-over - yeah, your charm might fly with a few people selling their rides, and you were definitely going the smart, cheap route, but you had to make sure you were doing it correctly. At the end of the day, you were a lost international, so he probably should state the obvious, just to be sure. 

 

"Go with someone, find out how many miles on the clock it has, make sure they don't try to fuck you on the price because you're foreign - so give 'em a ballpark range on the cost of whatever you're looking at, and - oh yeah, autoshop guys? Look them in the eye, bend over, flirt. You might get a discount," he said bluntly.

 

Well, you mused, the coach was definitely the blunt sort but you didn't expect him to be that upfront, still - it was refreshing. It reminded you of home, in a way. No beating about the bush. The advice was good advice, but you didn't know how much flirting you'd get done with a date hauling you around, and to be honest, you didn't even think you were much good at it. Eventually, he found the key, and gently placed it into your hands, which, to be honest seemed almost silly-large when compared to your own.

 

"Thanks Coach," you said with a snort, before letting out a short laugh. "-I'll keep it in mind,"

 

Oh yeah, hearts and minds. Winning over hearts and minds or however that fucking saying went - moments like this he was reminded he wasn't just respected and feared, but people actually listened to him, even if they had no reason to do the first two former things. He watched you turn away with a near stumble, but you didn't quite fall, and he frowned.

 

"Hold on, you've got a limp about you, have you been to the hospital wing?" and then he almost regretted saying it, because being Mort Sci, you probably lived there "-you're on women's boxing right? Did you fuck your thigh up?"

 

"Um, yeah," you were mostly surprised he noticed, and pinpointed exactly where. You'd be a bit more self-conscious walking around, was it super noticeable? You glanced up at him, insecurity wheedling into your features and it was so obvious. It felt like since you got off all of your medication and only just got re-evaluated and given new ones that in the interim, someone had ripped you open during the most crucial point of change in your life. Going to university. Moving country. Leaving your family and your home. It was like someone had just reached inside of you, and tore you open, making you an open fucking book. "But not at boxing it's an uhm, it's a stress fracture, I didn't even know I had that one until I got it checked, I went for the one in my wrist." you chuckled, writing it off as lady-pains was easy enough done, but at least you had it checked out.

 

Oh yeah, common sports injury, but women got them a lot more too, here was a field he had dominion over, spotting an injury.

 

"Is it that obvious?"

 

"I've got a good eye," he glanced at your heels, then up at you. "Go easy on it or you'll fuck it up worse then women's boxing will be even more fucked than it already is and I don't think you want to see Lowes get mopey,"

 

Ah, Lowes - the women's boxing leader, he was an oddball to be sure.

 

"Oh, heaven forbid," you said, grinning and backing away - you were definitely an odd one.

 

Oh yeah, the day might just be salvageable after all, if Microbiology hadn't killed you already.

 

* * *

 

 

The process of getting licensed when you had your papers from England was thankfully an easy one, so why Lorelai felt the need to dress you up was beyond you, but - you realised, after some explaining, it was to break you into wearing more feminine wear and to get your feet used to heels for that shitty excuse for a date you were going to take Deputy Cutey on. Unfortunately, you also had a pile of reading to do - a chapter on Mortuary Law which extended to nine pages, a ten page chapter on embalming, then another on the process of forensics intervening on grounds of a crime scene or an unusual death once it's picked up by a coroner, which admittedly was a very interesting chapter.

 

Oh, then the joy of Pathology -a chapter on pathogens, and all the things that the dead can do to kill you.

 

Fan-fucking-tastic, nothing like putting the fear of God into undergraduates like telling them about the horrible ways they can die.

 

Jesus, it was more fun with Ravinder, Lizzie and Lindsay, even if Lindsay was starting to fall off the radar now. You could just get up and go to Lizzie's room, but your feet hurt, and Lorelai snored, not badly - and you'd slept through worse, but it made it hard to sleep initially, so they were just a periodic sort of noise which was the only break between the sound of flicking pages.

 

Fuck it, you called her - and Lizzie, bless her, she thought it delightful, delightfully odd mind you, but that's okay - she said. She's odd too.

 

" _Did you get to page 204? That picture, wow. Her eyes were so blue, I didn't know they could preserve eyes. Would you want your eyes preserved? There's a section on ash jewellery here. I think I might like that,"_

 

 

You closed your eyes on your bed, feeling the book pages brushing against your leggings as you laid down, resting your aching feet. Jesus, was this really your life now? You heard her soft-spoken tones down the phone, and thought about her question. You thought a lot about your death, it was hard not to think about when you considered your upbringing.  But they didn't know that here, she didn't know that, how could they possibly know that? You didn't have boxes and boxes of Citalopram out on show, now they were all in a little black bag. Sleep tablets - short course, check. Antidepressants, long term - check. Birth control, long term - check. Now for the stress fracture - pain relievers, topical anti-inflammatories too. Check.

 

It's why Lorelai had to force you out sometimes, it's why you found yourself connecting to Lizzie Samuels. She's fucked up too. She might be some middle-class white girl but she understood better than most. More than Lindsay and Lorelai and even Ravi.

 

"My eyes aren't beautiful enough, but ash jewellery might be nice, I think I'd be a pretty onyx," you mused.

 

Silence down the line, before you hear what is, for sure, her sheets rustling.

 

 _"Everyone's eyes are beautiful enough,"_ that's another thing to love about Lizzie Samuels, she rarely has a bad word to say about anyone, even if they had nothing but bad to say about her. " _I think I'd make for good emeralds - but I don't know who'd wear me,"_

 

 _"_ I'd wear you," you chuckled darkly "-if for some fucked up reason, you died before me,"

 

Oh yeah, Mort Sci students were weird - because you heard Lizzie laughing down the line too - before she picked up on Lorelai's snoring.

 

" _....you should come to my room to study, it's quieter - and we can quiz each other,"_

 

Huh, well - you wouldn't be wearing shoes any time soon, but you agreed to it. You didn't feel like taking the cocktail of medications you'd need to start getting your body into routine wise, because while each of them was necessary, some of these were America-exclusives and you didn't know what they'd do to you, or importantly, what they'd do when mixed with each other. It was bound to be shit if you were honest, you were deeply experienced with narcotics if you were honest, there was no way someone growing up in your city wasn't,  and you weren't looking forward to the initial bout of side-effects reacting with each other, trying to get your body to get used to the new regimen being dictated to your hormones and organs.

 

It didn't help that your tolerance was so high that your medical records specified high dosages of most things, but a lot of them would be before-bed takes and morning-takes, so you stuffed the black bag into your oversized study bag - deciding not to take too many books as Lizzie would have hers, and plodded barefoot in only a pair of socks down the corridor, socks, shorts, and a long sleeping shirt.

 

You couldn't really say you cared if anyone saw you, it's not like you were naked, you could be headed to those disgusting pea green communal showers for all they knew. You found Lizzie's room easy enough, each little room had a little whiteboard right beside the door itself, you didn't even notice yours and Lorelai's, because it was blank, but as you moved around, you noticed people had filled theirs in. Some with drawings - most of them bad, but a few artists among them, some had poetry on there, or, rather dully, just the names of the people who stayed inside.

 

Lizzie's wasn't dull, in fact, it was everything you pictured it would be like by the time you got to her door. 

 

_Lizzie Lives Here_

 

And a picture of a skull-faced fairy, sitting on a rather pretty looking lotus - oh yeah, that suited Lizzie very well. It contained everything about her, imagery of death - of what it was to be a Mort Sci student, but then capturing her airy and almost mystical oddness, and the simple beauty she saw in most things, and in your eyes - was, because you did not find her to be an ugly girl. She was nice, and sweet. A good person.

 

Someone who didn't deserve to be called Lizzie Borden.

 

You opened the room door and found Lizzie laying on her bed, hair strewn over her pillow with a book sitting flat and open across her chest. She was in socks, a pair of baggy pants with butterflies on them, and a matching shirt - the kind of thing a mother would pack before you went away from home for the first time. You closed the door when music seeped out, not wanting to disturb anyone else trying to sleep - it wasn't loud, but easily filled a tiny single room, which, you mused, wasn't too much smaller than your shared one with Lorelai. Lizzie didn't have it bad here, by any stretch.

 

Even the music she had on, you could call it easily Lizzie. You didn't recognise the tones at first, strong, female, but not angry - not like the things you listened to. Kat Dahlia? 

 

Oh yeah. Lizzie would totally be listening to this, laying in her own, strange perfection.

 

"Hey!" said Lizzie excitedly, patting her bed - gesturing you to sit down. You put your bag down by the bed, watching as it opened lazily because the zip didn't work on it anymore, and how the tablets jangled with that telltale skittles noise that Lizzie knew too well. She didn't say much about it, not at first anyway.

 

"I'm back by popular demand," you smiled - sitting beside her. You let her read out chapters to you and took turns, with only occasional noises of pens scratching notebooks, some people preferred to take notes on computers, but you felt that most things you typed didn't stick in your mind, and Lizzie agreed, so the pair of you began covering her floor in notes and drawings. Crude ones, but drawings all the same.

 

"Party of two," said Lizzie "-but that's fine, daddy always said you only really need one good friend,"

 

Shit, were you that already? You gave her a wild-eyed look, and she gave you that innocent airy smile that you imagined her having when she declared that everybody's eyes were beautiful, and not for the first time, you wondered how anybody could hate her. Fuck Katrina and fuck everybody else, fuck Lindsay too if she didn't bother to get her head out of her arse.

 

"Look at this - this is beautiful," you weren't sure if you thought the photo was beautiful, but marvelled at her ability to find skull restoration beautiful. You thought it was marvellous but Lizzie saw it as art, and she definitely had those kinds of artsy vibes, even if her art was in restoration of the dead, everyone had to have a thing, right?

 

"It's a marvel," you said in reply, before glancing out of her window. She had a much better view up here, you mused. You weren't sure how you got into the scenario that followed. Maybe things were too perfect, too clean, going too right. It wasn't dirty, skunky, filled with ash, bile, regret, broken bits of glass, bits of dried blood and smoke filled corridors in tiny, falling apart houses.

 

It wasn't you. So maybe when Lizzie took out her own medication, you two felt normal together by being freaks.

 

"You show me yours I'll show you mine," she teased - she picked yours up with you but all she'd seen was the black bag it came in, and then the song changed. So you did - you tipped your bag open and showed it to her, because Lizzie Samuels was pure, non-judgemental, they sprayed over the bed, but the caps were on tight, some in boxes - instantly. Lizzie recognised a few.

 

She opened up the small dresser drawer by her bed and took out her own - you recognised the names, but not what they did. Maybe that's how you got in this position - stupid girl, doing stupid shit - but that was you. Smart girl, stupid shit. Life was too clean for you right now, you had to dirty it up just to feel normal. So you were dirtying it up - you didn't want to fuck it up too bad. Everything, that is. You couldn't. You could lose your scholarship if you did that, but fuck, Lizzie was a goddamn magician. She knew exactly what to mix and what not to mix, and what had which side-effect, she just couldn't guarantee 100% which would hit hardest.

 

But oh, did they hit hard.

 

_It's okay and if it goes wrong the hospital here is fine, I mean they'll write it off as a side effect of all the crap they've given you now. It's fine, me and Mika used to do this before - nothing ever happened. It's fine. You partied back in England, right?_

 

You remembered smiling and replying sarcastically.

 

"Party of two," mirroring her words. You could feel Kat Dahlia going right through you as you laid on the bed, her feet near your ears, and yours near hers, it was a tight squeeze, but you were both small creatures - the music felt louder, but neither of you had touched the dial on her music dock. God, was this why Lizzie was such a space-case all the time, or did it just make her natural inclinations louder? She was giggling at you, you could hear her - and to be honest you both felt like fuck ups together, taking medication at the same time, then letting her mix. It wasn't even much, but fuck was it enough.

 

Ah yes.  _My Gardens -_ a song which was a loose allegory for feminine arousal but it wasn't terribly dirty, even when it got low and dulcet, it was sensuous in the most innocent way that it could be - it was running through your veins like your blood was made of the music - you had to be fucking high to feel it inside you. God, how long had it been since you got high?

 

_My garden's wide of daisies, and it's untouched, complete._

 

_Check here my rhythm baby,_

 

Whatever shit they gave Lizzie was the good shit, or she was a fucking alchemist when it came to mixing, you didn't know, but finally felt right. She watched your body move like a wave against her bed, lolling your head to the left away from her socks as you grinned, before sighing deeply.

 

_My sky's been lookin' angry,_

 

_And it's untouched of sin._

 

Fucking hell, how you wished that was true. You ended up talking all sorts of shit with Lizzie, it was easy to see how words just left her mouth without any give-a-shit for the effects it'd cause after. It didn't matter how weird it made her, it didn't matter how much more it alienated Lizzie from the world, and fuck, it was all making sense to you now. Just as the ceiling started to get blurry and you felt her hand on your exposed leg - you smiled.

 

"Thank you Lizzieeeeee," you dragged the word out, breath hitching, was this what a paid-for massage was like? You'd never had one of those but often wondered what it was like, and now Lizzie was doing it for you - you told her about the stress fracture, now she was rubbing it. Thank God you had shorts on - that topical stuff, you couldn't feel it much, until you moved your leg and it hurt less. The sensation of heat raised up against your skin, not much, not substantially, and you felt the drugs making you sweat - that was new, but not unbearable, but that heat - maybe it was inappropriate to do this while high. Lizzie wouldn't hurt you, no, but this rumbled you a bit, and made you sit slightly upright, no longer writhing against the sheets.

 

_\- and I want you layin' on me -_

 

You were now fully up like a shot, you didn't need to be taking this shit into your body - Kat Dahlia - funnily enough, not the drugs, not when her shitty flower allegories turned into dulcet, sensuous tones that could make the pair of you shiver while you were high - you had to go. This didn't need to get weird.

 

Lizzie was silent as she took her hand off your leg, fingertips into your shorts - she knew what was happening, and she didn't want it to get odd either - you two were already odd - why make it stranger? Yeah, you weren't ready for your college lesbian experience, well, it shouldn't be while you were high, with your lonely, awkward classmate who just wanted a friend. Who the fuck does that to a friend? You were experienced enough, sexually anyway, to know when to call it quits.

 

This was a call it quits moment, before it got weird, you could probably even face each other the next day and not even have to address it. Perfect.

 

* * *

 

 

Deputy Sheriff Shane Walsh dressed down for once which was a look you hadn't seen on him, he was in dark brown slacks and a tucked in shirt with the sleeves rolled up, true to promise, waiting in the car park for you. This felt like the antithesis of everything you'd done yesterday, like you were trying to live two lives at once. One was you turning the page and leaving your past behind you, but then when you spent time with Lizzie taking some of her pills, it was like the past was still bookmarked. Like you kept going a few pages back on a "Choose Your Own Adventure," and that summed it up very well, if you were honest, because part of you kept waiting for you to land on another shitty consequence. A dead end, even.

 

You smiled for the deputy, and told him he looked handsome, because he did.

 

"And you're looking very lovely," he said simply, opening the door to his car like a gentleman. You two sat there and went through the GPS coordinates and addresses you had, some date this was - you mused - but it was necessary, and Shane was perfect for the job really. A responsible, an adult, a cop. He was nice, he really was. He listened to you, let you pick your own stations on his car radio, he didn't complain about petrol costs or awkward addresses, he didn't complain about your taste in radio. He didn't even bring up work, he just asked how you were feeling - and you just told him about your stress fractures. You didn't like lying and saying you were fine, you were a lie-by-omission girl, so you gave him just enough,

 

You would feel bad, not putting your all into a date, not being honest, but it was date one, and frankly - Shane wasn't giving his all either.

 

The most he'd done was put his hand on your knee, for perhaps a moment, and that was it. You met three Craigslist guys and found their cars to be too big and clunky for your purposes, one of them perhaps a little creepy, but all of them charmed - it was Shane's presence that was keeping you in check, keeping you safe, you weren't sure you would have been with some of the areas of town you ended up in.

 

You ended up with a fucking moped - it was a dorky looking thing too, a cute red colour with a basket on it that had fake flowers weaved into it, and a little polkadot seat. It was an adorable fucking thing. Shane smiled when you chose it - it was very, very cute and delightfully cheap, easy to repair too, in theory. It'd cost less than a car, he pointed out, and as a "responsible officer," - felt the need to get you a helmet, with his own money.

 

It might have been nice, except it felt like you were being led around by your dad on an open day or something.

 

Or uh, shit, what you imagine it would have felt like for your dad to lead you around on a college open-day, despite you ending up staying on a sixth-form. You thought maybe you could kiss him somewhere other than the cheek - and you tried, nothing forceful - and he'd fucking liked it. You knew he fucking liked it - the way his hands flew to your shoulders, maybe you still had the drugs in your system, you didn't know. He had the softest hair, you were running your fingers through it like they were feathers almost, fucking hell - so why did he stop? When you kiss like that, you don't stop. In your experience, it was when hands went everywhere and you did everything to keep the electricity flowing between bodies. Tongues follow. Usually.

 

It was almost what you wanted, quick, dirty - grungy - everything that reminded you of home, and how much you were truly worth. But then he broke free and gently nudged you off so he could catch his breathe.

 

Shane threw his head back into the car seat, panting lightly, running his hands back through his hair where you mussed it up, like he was fixing it.

 

 _Fucking hell_ \- he thought -  _is this college girls, or just English ones?_

 

"Jesus, you're a loaded gun," he was older than you by a long shot, not as old as you've glanced at before, but older certainly. Too old for a freshman and he knew it, but you understood what he met even if it was a term ripped right out of classic rock, he was calling you pent-up, hormonal, thirsty with need and he wasn't wrong, but he was making light of it almost, like he was trying to write off your moment.

 

"Don't tell me you're not up for making out, or are we breaking a law here?" you said sarcastically, only for his lips to twitch.

 

"No," he said, and you were quiet for a while as he drove you to the food place of your choice - for you, it was McDonalds, and he chuckled, saying you were rather an easy please, but that it wasn't a bad thing. He thought it was charming, or again, the repeat of that word. Cute. "Just takin' it slow," he smiled.

 

You almost believed it too - until he caught sight of some uniforms sitting in McDonalds, which was fine, usually, except it meant he was using the drive-thru. You noticed, of course, and frowned when he did it, because you wanted to go inside and eat across from each other, like a proper, cheap, silly date in a place that felt about your standard.

 

"Are you ashamed of me or something?" you said with a frown - and that's when he said it.

 

_You're legal, but a bit young. I don't want to explain this to people...erm, yet, anyway - let's just eat and have a nice time. I want you to have a nice time with me, are you having one?_

 

"I was," you'd said bitterly "-until I realised this was one massive dick-stroke and a waste of my time,"

 

Shane scowled.

 

"Hang on, I thought we had a good time today,"

 

"So did I," fucking hell, how was a deputy sheriff with this many years on the clock, this fucking stupid? Or was it just a guys-not-understanding-women kind of thing? "-and then I realised that this was just one massive 'look at me, I can still pull a young bird' fucking dick stroke moves and that this was never going to go anywhere, why did you bother giving me your number? Just to say to all your copper mates that the college skirt called you back?"

 

"I thought you were pretty," he said softly "-and you had me the moment you spoke. I thought - I want to know that girl. That's all. I want to know that girl, because she's different. I didn't - this wasn't some joke. I don't treat women like jokes,"

 

Then you made Deputy Sheriff Shane Walsh feel like quite possibly the worst man on Earth as you angrily took your belt off, and stepped out of his car, your voice warbled, and it was the first and last time he ever heard you upset.

 

"Well, congratulations, because you managed to make me feel like one!"

 

* * *

 

 

You didn't let him untie the moped from the cruiser, you did it yourself, with all the strength your little body had, you all but threw it down onto the pavement, and began walking with it. He followed you a while, telling you to at least let him give you a ride back to campus, you remembered telling him that women didn't like being forced to spend an awkward thirty to forty minutes dependant on traffic in close quarters with a man who strung them along. I mean, what else could you call it? Sure, Shane had been nothing but nice, and sweet and kind, and he kissed like a fucking -  _fuck -_ he just kissed good.  

 

He kissed so good and his fingers toyed under your bra straps but he didn't fucking do anything, needless to say - you ended up walking to campus until you found a petrol station, filled the moped and used your mobile GPS to find your way home. You had too much pride to settle for Shane's platitudes.

 

No quick dirty, grungy, back-of-a-council-estate loving. You're just a mess, and you felt like he was just going out with you as a joke, just to say that he had. Lorelai was going to immediately ask you how the date went, Lizzie was going to know something was wrong, the library actually had people studying in it because it was 24/7 and had very few secret nooks that weren't occupied usually. Ravinder would crack a joke and.... what the fuck would Lindsay even say? Some mindless platitude.

 

Buggering fuck.

 

You mindlessly walked to the Sports Hub, that building was always open, even if most of the rooms were locked, you could probably sit in the gymnasium and wait for everybody to go to bed, then do the long plod to Unilocks. It was like the walk of shame minus all of the dirty, raunchy, delicious, spine-tingling sex. The shittest walk of shame to ever happen, where nobody actually knew how humiliated you felt, but you felt like God put a magnifying glass over you anyway, and you were sweltering under its lens.

 

It's not like you asked Shane to fucking marry you, all you wanted to do was eat in fucking McDonalds in fucking public.

 

Did you even have a right to be this upset about it though - it was one....lame, not-even-a-real-date.

 

You could just hear Lorelai's voice in your mind -  _Yeah because a real date gets as far as sitting across from each other in a public place, this wasn't a date, it was an errand day with making out in it._

 

It's not like dating was the be all and end all of college, you mused, it just felt like it was in this small, stupid moment. That's all it was, a small, stupid moment in the larger world, you had more going on, you just didn't want to deal with it. It felt like the pendulum that was your personality was stuck in two places - the past behind it, the future ahead of it. The past was what you'd done with Lizzie - the drugs, and the shitsharing, the absolute mess you'd put your body through just to have a bonding experience with her, at least, in that moment, you'd grown to understand her better.

 

The future was you making better choices, like a clean cut cop - and that was fucked up from inception, because he never planned to take you anywhere were anybody who might even slightly matter in his life might see you. You were just a joke, an oddity, a novelty.

 

You laid on your back on a crash mat nobody bothered to put away, it was softer than the bleachers anyway. You knew it'd probably be weird if somebody saw you, but the Sports Hub was utterly empty after a certain time, and it had to be booked out for large groups, and the book was at the front desk, you saw it empty for these slots. As far as you knew, it wasn't even evening-bookable. Usually.

 

The crash mat was comfortable, and hey, at least Lorelai wasn't here snoring - you just wished you could get that feeling like everything about you was a joke, a lie, and that you would be back in your hell-home out of your mind, and you wished you could stop yearning for the familiarity of everything fucking up around you.

 

Because fuck ups hurt, they hurt real bad.

 

You held your phone out from your face, and tried a few times to call your mother through Skype, the Wi-Fi for some reason was better in the fucking Sports Hub than your own accommodation. So, this is what it was like to be lonely while being surrounded by people. Ravinder, Lindsay, Lizzie, Lorelai - and you're still so fucking alone.

 

Erica, the RA even - but still so fucking alone, maybe that was your sadness, it was always there, like a background noise that just rose or quieted depending on the day. For a long time you thought that it was normal because of where you lived, houses got broken into constantly, you always got touched up on the bus home, Javeed would always try to get a blowjob and/or sell you marijuana in the process, you'd pass at least one heroin user tapping out on the local park bench and your dad drank like a fucking fish. Mum was miserable and sick all the time, your dad broke shit, pissed everywhere, blacked out constantly in his drunkenness.

 

Your friends would be - God, if you could call them friends, they writhed around on a floor mattress and fucked each other senseless to distract from the fact the walls were actually crumbling around them, and that everything around them may as well have suffered under the shitfingers version of the Midas touch that only poverty had, everything just turned to shit. It was all shit. Raised in shit. Die in shit.

 

"Pick up the phone," your voice was ragged and echoing in the gymnasium. Everything echoed, even your misery - but it was nice in a way. It was like having none judgemental company that wouldn't tell you to get the fuck over yourself.

 

You knew it'd be a decent time there, in England, but you didn't care.

 

"Come on mum, pick up the fucking phone," you wanted to hear her say that boy's ain't shit. Focus on your studies. How awesome you were. All those things mum was good at doing.

 

The Skype ring was loud, and echoed hard - and endlessly, until it went dead, and she didn't pick up. You dropped your hand - the one where your wrist fractured - and the phone fell flat onto your chest, your eyes stinging. Oh, fuck you - you weren't going to fucking cry over this bullshit, it's easily the least traumatic thing to ever happen in the context of the litany of fuck ups in your life prior to this. So why did it fucking hurt so goddamn bad? It wasn't the worst emptiness you've ever felt, but it was pretty shitty - you had to admit. You weren't sure how long you laid on that crash mat, looking up at the skylight. The sun was shining through it until the clouds came out, and the sky turned all of those beautiful hues it would go to signal that dusk was going to settle real soon. 

 

The empty wouldn't go, but hey, at least you didn't cry. You just laid there in your - well, Lorelai's cute little dress - with tights on instead of leggings. Thin, lacy, sexy fucking tights that showed off a fake-garter that teased how close your panties were to the end of the Incredibly Cute Dress and Deputy Dickhead only fucking copped a sneaky look once. Like you were a fucking passing fancy. You flitted between pissed off and sad, but as long as you didn't cry, it was a victory to you. 

 

Closing your eyes and listening to the monotonous drone of your playlist on your phone through a shitty phone speaker while it echoed over the large, empty gymnasium. Yeah, you'd need to replace that now you had a proper job, but you could go through your playlist back to back until the battery went flat. Yeah that was a good plan, the dulcet and miserable tones of Syd Matters. Not all of it was miserable, but soft acoustic was about all you could be fucking bothered with, you just needed to feel less alone, and less pathetic. You stuffed your tablets down dry, without water or alcohol - as you'd have preferred. Pill for pill, laying on your back and picking them out of the sheet, one for one. You did it because you had to, but also in the hopes you might magically feel better if an antidepressant lines your stomach, but it didn't.

 

_I cry sometimes, walking around my own place,_

 

_Wondering why she cries sometimes,_

 

_Talking about her own place,_

 

Still empty. Still, so much fucking empty, fucking hell - just make it stop. You held the translucent, cylindrical bottle from your head as you laid up and looked at the skylight, and marvelled at just how many you had, and wondered how many it'd take an ordinary person who didn't have the resistance of a fucking rhino to bring them down. You could easily pop a few more, and be okay - you knew it, maybe - shit. Fuck. No. That's stupid. You have work tomorrow, and they don't work like Lizzie's do - they don't make you that kind of a happy.

 

_Somewhere around the mountains,_

  
_No one could dry her fountain,_

  
_Till she got tired to complain,_

  
_That's when I fly to the wildland, to your land,_

 

You flinched as the automatic lights went on, covering you in brightness and making your eyes sting, but didn't bother to move straight away.

 

"Fuck!" you shrieked, before you could stop yourself, slamming your hand over your eyes and wincing, before slowly sitting upright, feeling your hair fall back around your shoulders. It took you a few moments to blink the light out of your eyes and get everything into focus again, admittedly, you were getting to the soft drowsy state, watching stars begin to creep up. It wasn't total night yet, but getting there. Evening, for sure. You felt the dress drag up around your thighs and your feet hurt, so you'd slid out of the heels and they were on the crash mat near your bag. You stuffed your medication into the bag almost violently, before grabbing the straps to your heels.

 

Fuck, this looked weird.

 

You shut your phone up with several fumbling thumb movements and shoved it in your bag with the pills, before glancing up and seeing the figure advancing on you, and then sighing in slight relief. Okay cool, it was a staff member, and the voice you recognised right away.

 

"Shit, I thought I heard someone in here," - that was coach, of course - he was probably putting shit away and doing whatever his late business was, he was probably busy in the day. He'd been standing there a while, if he was honest - the loud ringing had gotten his attention, and then your voice - and the music that followed, and that skittles-noise-but-is-clearly-not-skittles noise. You got up and winced as the pain shot through your thigh - fuck, and nearly fell, before steadying yourself on your aching ankles, and glanced at the heels in your hand. You probably looked like you rolled out of a party, in truth, you just had the world's shittest date and were hiding out, and your feet hurt. It was about that simple.

 

"Oh, fucking - it's you, God, I about had a heart attack," you said, letting out a shaky exhale. "It's fine, I'm going,"

 

Negan looked at you, then your riding up dress, the choice of tights - the heels in your hands sagged at the hips, hair long and mussed from laying down and a strap lazily going down your right bicep. You looked like the picture of a student who'd been taxed too far living the freshman life, if you wore makeup, he was sure it would have been running. 

 

"I heard a noise, so I came to check it out," he said after a long, careful moment of deliberation "-you're fine to fuck around in here, it's open all the time so have at it, only places that aren't are locked health and safety concerns like the pool, equipment storage and that shit. Hang around if you want, I don't fuckin' mind," he said easily.

 

You felt a bit relieved he wasn't formally kicking you out. Yeah, Coach Negan was pretty cool, you decided.

 

"Thanks," you muttered, before clearing your throat. 

 

"For uh, being cool,"

 

Negan smirked. Fuck yeah - he was cool - now that was definitely worth coming in and investigating over. He was, officially, The Cool Teacher - instead of  _just_ the resident hardass, the teacher people want to talk to. 

 

"It's a skill," he bragged - making you snort, you'd have given him a chuckle, but you didn't feel like laughing, or much of anything, really "Don't mind me anyways, I was lockin' stuff up, I'm ready to clock out, do whatever," he said. He watched you shrug and then realise your dress and bra strap hung down, and lazily pull it back up over your shoulder.

 

"I need to go to my dorm, I um, I was just waiting for my roomie to fall asleep so I could go to bed and have her not interview me about how my day went so..." you glanced up at the skylight, and then back at him. "I'm about ready to take my chances."

 

Killing time, and hiding out basically - both acceptable reasons to be doing what you were doing, but you looked rather strange on that crash mat, like you were having a mental - if he was honest - but you gave him the same smile you gave him earlier in the day, when you got your laundromat key off of him. He wasn't about to call you out on it though, it wasn't any of his business really, and while he liked listening in, he wasn't about to involve himself when he didn't have to, he was content to watch from afar. He wasn't in the business of comforting people, not normally, anyway, and he wasn't about to take a chance and get into something this close to his self-appointed clock-out time. He missed his apartment bed, to be honest.

 

"Yeah, it's pretty late," said Negan after a moment "-Walk slow on your way back, it's easy to fall, it's pretty fucking dark and the quad lights still need fixing," remembering your fractures. 

 

Shit. Yeah. You frowned as your phone went off with a few bleeps, and ignoring the sound of the bottles jingling in your bag, you rooted for your phone, and took a quick look at the text in case Lorelai was still up and about to send out a search party for her "lost little English" or something.

 

_I'm sorry_

_-Shane._

 

Your jaw set at the text, and you simply put your phone on standby to lock the screen, before looking back up at Negan, oh yeah, that felt like the death stroke telling you to get the fuck out of there so you could mope against your pillow where nobody could see you, as the text brought a whole new wave of irritation, and it showed as you frowned. The coach wondered, briefly, what was said that could be read in a few seconds that could make somebody look that crestfallen.

 

"Thanks, you're just full of the good advice - that's not me being a sarky by the way, I just sometimes sound sarcastic when I don't mean to be," you closed your eyes "-might be a British thing, I don't know,"

 

Negan chuckled - yeah, you guys were kind of known for that, and mentally filed the word 'sarky' in his mind, it was the first time he'd heard that shortcut and he was a bit amused by it, and your vernacular. He could see why Trevor was so taken, he came across as one of these guys who was taken by fancy fairly often, Negan usually noticed it in his choice of clothing, but just as a player - he was a guy who when he had something in his mind, he was relentless with it until he gave it up out of the blue. The wheel never stopped turning with Trevor.

 

He watched you turn to walk away, and then, finally, you realised your dress rode up - like, a lot. Mostly around the thighs, but halfway up your backside too - flashing a rather nice sort of view of a matching, deep red colour through webbed tights where the fake garters ended. Christ, he didn't even try to look away, he didn't expect it, but almost as an afterthought, you began rolling the form-fit dress down, hips moving left to right to facilitate the roll, it took all of maybe a few seconds, but he'd seen about enough - fucking tight, pert to the eyes, young. Nice.  _Niiiiiiice._

 

Best Ass in Freshman Class in- _fucking_ -deed.

 

 _Trevor was gonna have himself a hell of a time,_ Negan mused with a smirk. 

 

You turned around, and in truth, between the pill side-effects, the drowsiness, genuine tiredness, exhaustion that came from sadness and growing fuzzy-headedness that called for your bed, you didn't even register embarrassment. Tights almost felt like leggings, and you just didn't care. You gave him that broken, crooked grin of yours, bag jangling with various items, and that skittles sound again, that he knew probably were not candy at all - in fact, he'd seen you medicating, so he knew they definitely weren't, and came in on the off chance you might be pouring the whole thing down your throat. It wouldn't do to have someone OD in the gymnasium, but thankfully, he realised with the meticulousness of your pill extracting, one for one, that you weren't doing that, but came in anyway out of curiosity. 

 

"For the record," you cleared your throat, hoping to dispel the awkwardness of the Epic Friendless Loser Breakdown Moment(TM) that Negan had witnessed, by calling back to that morning talk a day or two ago. "I ended up getting a moped,"

 

You tried to sound cheery, hanging in the doorway of the gymnasium, tossing your hair back as you looked over your shoulder at him, eyes ringed with a strange exhaustion that boiled past being a student and hit right to the soul. You were tired long before all this shit.

 

"It's really fucking cute," you added, but the cheeriness. It just sounded bitter to your ears, and probably his. "Good advice, Coach. Have a good night,"

 

He stared after you, and uttered a simple "Night," - picking up the forgotten crash mat, and slowly bringing it to storage, wondering what in the sam-fuck had actually happened, and perhaps, maybe, if he should have asked. But he had no doubt that if he kept his finger to the pulse just enough, he would probably hear about it. Maybe. Sometimes.

 

There walked out a fucked up girl, gimping with her heels in her hands and tablets jingling in her bag - he didn't need a psychology masters for that so - Trevor was in for a wild fucking ride, the crazy ones always were, he chuckled, locking the storage door. A hot near 20-something, single, alone, medicated - smart, morbid, pretty good looking. Oh yeah. He had a feeling he'd probably be seeing you in the gymnasium more after more or less extending the offer to have it as a free fuck-around zone, like the Very Cool Teacher he was. Emphasis on the "Very Cool".

 

He wasn't wrong.


	4. John Doe

 

 

The best thing to do was to keep on moving forward, even though you felt empty, and your hormones were a mess. The new medication had you throwing up into your bin at 6:30AM and waking up Lorelai, who held your hair and asked how your date went. Considering what followed were a series of wretches in between uttering the word “bad,” – she at least had the foresight to drop the topic until a later date. Naturally, she wasn’t going to let this go, but cheerfully reminded you about the art of playing the field, and that there was still Trevor.

 

You didn’t bother telling her about The Lizzie Incident – it’s not like anything even really happened. God, your stomach felt like a toxic cauldron of pure shite, but at least when you vomited, the sickness passed, and you could force yourself to Monday morning class.

 

Two and a half hours of Mortuary Law, the dullest possible class out of all of your classes but at least it was the type of thing you couldn’t fuck up, you just needed to know the knowledge, the thick of it, the pure fact. It wasn’t actually what you needed, you wanted something less mindless, and so you found yourself attached to the PhDs under Dr Eichmann, by the names of Justin and Linus and throwing yourself into the case of the John Doe.

 

Justin was rather a goofball for a Pathologist, Linus was the opposite, they were night and day really but they got on well. It reminded you of Lorelai and yourself in a way – different to how you and Lizzie were.

 

As lab partners, you flowed like two rivers meeting, picking up after each other, flowing in the same direction. You had the least amount of communication, if you were honest, but it was because you understood each other. She knew there was something wrong, but she could also tell how much of it was the medication or at least, she could more than most.

 

“Something’s wrong,” said Lizzie in her airy voice as she stretched the surgical gloves across her hands – you were already elbow deep in it. Literally. As the two prodigal freshmen with the authority of Justin and Linus, you were allowed, with careful stalking on their part, to get up close to the autopsy, as long as you didn’t do anything, unless you had permission.

 

“Yeah, no kidding,” you said, only for Lizzie to frown and begin walking over to you. You were allowed to touch and to poke, but not to change anything, but she caught sight of something long and silver in your hand, and realised you could get very seriously told off for it, in trouble even.

 

The body was part of an investigation after all, one big stinking pile of evidence, as Mortuary Law had informed her.

 

“What’re you doing?!” Lizzie hissed urgently, only for you to lift the surgical tool out, and she saw it was a set of medical pliers used for the purposes of extracting, and from the blood on your gloves, you’d really gotten in there.

 

“That’s tampering!”

 

You sucked in a sharp breath and held up the device, making Lizzie come over and look at it. You could see the odd look on her face too, as she reached the same conclusion while you flexed your wrist so that she could see the strange, odd squishy consistency of the thing.

 

It looked like something fleshy.

 

“I just pulled this out of the digestive tract, you need to get Justin, and tell him he missed a spot.” Things in the digestive tract got documented, autopsies were nothing if not incredibly detailed, especially the ones done in VMA labs.

 

It wasn't that Justin was a bad Pathologist by any means, but there was something about his method that you found imprecise, not lazy, just imprecise. He was a man who missed details, and you were someone who was hung up on every little one. It was why you were so quick to judge Shane and his long-term end game with you and cut your losses early. There was something wrong here, really quite wrong - and Lizzie was originally talking about you, your mood and overall pallor, but you showed you were knee deep in everything as it was and pulled out the strange food.

 

Whatever it was, it hadn't digested much, there was very little breakdown on the item and you found yourself staring at it, gently poking at its squishy consistency with your gloves fingers, grimacing.  It was only when Dr Eichmann came in that you jumped out of your skin, only for him to stop dead in his tracks, and scowl.

 

"What have you got there?" Dr Eichmann scowled, walking over, his thick eyebrows set into a stern expression. "You're not to touch anything without somebody present, you're just a first year,"

 

You winced, and held it up to Dr Eichmann's glasses insistently.

 

"I know, I know - it was just, I was looking at Justin's method and I thought - I didn't want to insult him or anything but I thought he missed something so I just took a little peek into the digestive tract - I used the gloves and the pliers, I didn't cut anything or pick anything up, I sterilised too - um, Lizzie's gone to get him, but... sorry," you quailed, knowing that this could be quite the offence if you'd done anything wrong, instead of look at what you had in your hand, he bypassed you and looked at the rather gorily mauled John Doe on the autopsy table, looking over the digestive tract himself after putting on some sterilised gloves.

 

"Right, it all seems to be in order so you're fine, but never do that again," said Dr Eichmann seriously "-mostly because this body is in an active case, but tell me, what do you think you've found? it looks undigested,"

 

You cleared your throat, feeling your face burn from being told off.

 

"Nominal breakdown, professor, I held it up to Lizzie and she... hold on, do I have permission to run this under cleanser?" the man nodded, walking over to you to check your form as you dipped the thing in a mixture of water and you froze, looking at the strange, pink, fleshiness of it as the natural layer of blood from body removal was washed away, before you swallowed thickly, and gently pried at it with your fingers - only for Eichmann to do the same, he had his experience of what various things from the insides of a body felt like, and he seemed as jarred as you and Lizzie had been.

 

"I didn't want to say it without taking some of the blood off so you could see it because I'm sure I'm going to sound absolutely mad if I say this out loud," you said with a frown.

 

"And you definitely found it in the digestive tract - Miss Samuels can confirm this?" said Dr Eichmann as you nodded, and at that moment, the penny seemed to drop.

 

"Drop it in formalin and I'll run some tests, you should find Mattius and get Virginia PD on the phone after he sees this, it could be animal," he pointed out.

 

"Who eats that part of an animal?" you said quizzically, only for him to shrug.

 

"I've removed odder things from stomachs, but go - go get him, and," he paused, glancing at the strange fleshy thing that was dropped into a jar of formaldehyde as you took your gloves off near the waste disposal unit and began sterilising on your way out, spreading the scent of peppermint cleaner in the room. 

 

"Well done, this was a good spot,"

 

* * *

 

 

You scowled as you folded your arms and huffed next to Mattius, apparently, the detective on the case was a man by the name of Cortez, who didn't seem to have much respect for anybody. It was the presence of the deputy sheriff that made him behave better, but you still didn't like him, he treated lab work like everybody was just sitting on their asses, but Detective Cortez had a hair up his ass about how long it took to get any results. Luckily, it seemed Mattius was happy to deal with him, which left you with Shane, uncomfortably. Especially after you more or less threw a tantrum, pulling your moped off of his cruiser, you maintained that you were not in the wrong in your reaction.

 

Frankly, some college girls might have even slapped the guy, if he wasn't a cop.

 

Feeling the need to defend your professor, though the man was highly capable, you folded your arms under your chest, and began walking between the pair, glancing up at Detective Cortez through your eyelashes.

 

"Well, we didn't want to call you all the way to waste your time, officers," you said smoothly, determined to give Shane the coldest shoulder humanly possible, Hell, you wanted to give him the ice age treatment after all of the bullshit you'd felt after the disaster-date ended. "-a strange unidentified, semi-digested substance was located in the John Doe's digestive tract, it was obviously a fleshy, meat-like type of thing, and it could have easily been animal,"

 

You tilted your head as you looked up at Cortez, a dangerous sort of impatient irritation glittering in your eyes, Shane recognised the look as the one you'd given him as he told you why he'd rather not go inside with you in a public diner.

 

"And we wouldn't want to drag you all the way out here just to waste your time, the final report from pathology is in, and toxicology will be finished soon so your formal autopsy report will be in and anything else we pick up will be updated after the fact," said Professor Mattius, as it seemed that Shane wasn't the only one who detected the annoyance in your eyes. Mattius handed over a file, a physical one, and mentioned a soft copy being sent to their homicide department, but mentioned that they come over due to the sheer irregularity of what was found, on what was already a highly irregular homicide.

 

"It's human," you said bluntly, as the file was handed over. "It could have been obscure animal delicacy, it's rare but known to happen, but it's human - human cerebrum after some closer look from the lab,"

 

At the blank look, it was Mattius who interjected again.

 

"Brain, there was a bit of brain in the digestive tract, you can see now why we called you here to discuss it in person, my undergraduate picked it up when going over the original pathology check, it was small enough to almost miss, but unmistakable. I had our labs check the sample a total of twelve times, it's human," said Dr Mattius flatly.

 

DI Cortez went silent, and Shane, he just sighed. He leaned back and scratched the back of his neck, letting out a low sigh.

 

"Any break through on ID?" he tried, and Dr Mattius shook his head negatively. 

 

"Thank you for this, it's a new angle," said DI Cortez after a moment, inclining his head out of a grudging respect for the department, before turning to leave with Shane. "We'll look over these reports right away, let us know if there's any other break throughs, I know a few more people I can question now, I think, with this new evidence. We might even be able to get a warrant on one of our suspects - there's some...weird people involved in this. I don't know if it's eating-human-brains weird, but all we have to do is convince a judge that it is,"

 

Shane was silent, staring at you in quiet appreciation as you stood resolutely beside your professor, with all of your stern, short posturing that you could manage, giving him very business-like treatment, and Professor Mattius noticed, with a lot less warmth than the last time you had burst in on the investigation and made yourself a part of it.

 

"Keep us in the loop if you can, whoever did this is a dangerous lunatic," the man sighed. "I've removed some odd things, I've seen really odd things inside a person, but Í think this might take the cake for the strangest,"

 

"We will, thanks for your help," said Shane, dragging his eyes away from you as you turned away from him. "-Could you - excuse me, could I just borrow your student a moment?" 

 

You looked at your professor urgently, wondering if he could read from your eyes that you wanted him to somehow know that you didn't want to be left with the man after DI Cortez left for the cruiser and would let Shane catch up, since he was driving, plus he could make a few calls in private, he said, so not to rush. You swallowed, and did your best to keep a glare off of your face and did your best to look nonplussed, and utterly bored by the man's presence. It seemed that Mattius was able to pick up on your discomfort at least a little bit, and so he made a half-hearted excuse, as he wasn't one to refuse the deputy, but he could see the desperation in your face.

 

"Don't keep her too long, I need her to help me prepare for my second year's practicals," you did your best to keep the surprise off of your face, as this was the first you were hearing of it, and so the professor made the moment smaller at least, and said "Couple of minutes, yeah? I need to get to acquisitions and see where our new formalin supplies are at," he nodded at him, taking his leave "Officer."

 

Fuck.

 

Now it was just you, and Shane, who was in the process of clearing his throat and flashing you a somewhat confident sort of smile.

 

"Sorry about Cortez, he's a bit...highly strung," he said, trying to segway into a smoother, friendlier conversation with you, and you, feeling the need to not make this easy on him, you decided to defend the man even though you clearly did not like his attitude much.

 

"Yes well," you said, straightening out the crinkles in your lab coat as you talked "-I suppose working homicide will do that to a person," you bit out, making Shane nod his head reluctantly.

 

"Good job with the John Doe," he said after a moment, only for you to sigh impatiently. "-And um, I just wanted to ask if you got back to campus okay, y'know, after last night,"

 

You felt your face twitch in agitation, he was truly the last person you wanted to see and you made sure to reflect this, causing Shane to feel at least moderately awkward. Good. 

 

"I have this thing, it's called Google Maps," you said flatly and sarcastically "I filled up at a Shell and got back just fine," you bit out, only for him to grimace.

 

"Listen, I wanted to call you and say sorry, but I figured I was the last person you wanted to talk to so I didn't, but it feels a bit...wrong not to say it in person," he said, and to his credit, he did seem at least a little humble "I didn't mean to make you feel embarrassed, it wasn't my intention to make you feel like a joke, please understand,"

 

"Oh, I understand alright," you said calmly "-but it seems like you're the guy who was embarrassed," you added without missing a beat, looking him square in the eye as a confused expression came over him. "You were the one who was embarrassed, of me - that is," you even made a point of batting your lashes, looking as wide-eyed and as innocent as you possibly good, delivering your acidic tones to him as you did.

 

"I mean, there's not a lot of words for someone who is ashamed to be seen in public with another person, so yeah, and don't bother trying to convince me that, that wasn't what it was. I'm nineteen years old Deputy Walsh, and you gave me your number knowing I was legal, but not how young I was, and it didn't bother you at the time when you were showing off to your friend, but when it comes to actually being serious, you wouldn't even do me the basic respect of going into a McDonalds and eating with me just because you didn't want to explain that you actually took that little piece of college skirt out on a date. Why?" you pressed.

 

"I want to know, am I not hot enough?" you said with a frown "-or is it that you didn't want to feel like a dirty old cop, using his badge to get pussy?" you weren't breaking a law with your bluntness, that was for sure, but Shane was surprised with how you were talking to him, even knowing his position, he was now a bit jarred by how much of your respect for him had fallen through, but he wasn't offended, just surprised. 

 

"What? No!" he said in surprise, frowning back at you at your first comment "-is that what you thought? No! You're very... you're a very pretty young woman," he said placatingly, and stupid you - you flushed regardless. It was different to being called cute, which was still a bit embarrassing, it was a compliment which generally meant just the face, when people said "Pretty" - it wasn't like they were commenting on your tits or your ass. Which, as annoying as it was to be treated as an object was, it would have been nice if the man expressed a bit more of a sexual attraction to you, the whole night you just felt like you were on a goddamn school trip. "And I enjoyed..." he trailed off, before leaning in and lowering an octave as a student doctor bustled past.

 

"I enjoyed our time in the car together" he said quietly "-so it wasn't that, believe me - and fuck, you're nineteen," he groaned, closing his eyes "-you're nineteen, my colleagues are married, or married and divorced, or twice your age sometimes, if I walked in with you... yeah I'd get some fist bumps but I'd be getting some pretty horrible stuff slung my way and I didn't want that. I should have thought about it more, and I'm sorry if you feel like I used you to prove a point,"

 

You chewed down on your lip, frowning still - he was saying "if you feel like" - it's like saying "I'm not sorry I did the thing, I'm sorry how you feel about the thing I did," and you simply didn't believe him, you didn't believe him that he wasn't using you to prove a point, and it felt like a pretty weak own-up to his actions, but it was something, you sighed.

 

"Whatever, look, I know you probably think I'm overreacting, but it's not like I asked to marry you, I just wanted to eat with my date, in public," you looked like a kicked dog and for a moment, Shane felt that horrid feeling he felt when you proclaimed you felt like he made a joke of you. "And you couldn't give me that, I just wanted to feel like a normal girl on a normal date," you backed away. 

 

"Silly me, for thinking I deserved that much," you mumbled bitterly.

 

"Have a good evening, Deputy Walsh."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 Lorelai insisted on taking you out, but why she insisted on doing it on a college night was anyone's guess. Her logic was that you'd be a hot mess if you did it on Friday for your Saturday date with Trevor, which left you stunned because in her mind, that made it okay for you to be equally trashed for lessons? Her reasoning was that while you were very noticeably sad and struggling with your cocktail of nightly drugs, you wouldn't be concentrating very well and you weren't getting anything about the John Doe, Mortuary Law was boring you to tears and everything in introductory Microbiology was stuff you had a familiarity with already. So, she picked a Wednesday night after your very quiet and mopey Tuesday to get you ready for a night on the town.

 

"I don't have a fake ID like in the movies, I'm not twenty till next week, and I need to be twenty one to have any fun here, which is stupid," you said with an eye roll.

 

Lorelai snorted, picking out a rather short dress and throwing it at your face after you shut your books with a heavy thud. In truth, washing the team uniforms in preparation for sleeping most of Thursday away had left you tired, but it seemed Lorelai was a bit more of a party beast than you thought. It was now very apparent why she was enrolled in VMA - her parents thought it might instil some more discipline in her and she would follow the path of her extended family which was a long and cultural tradition of joining the Israeli Special Forces.

 

"Psh, yeah, if you're a boy. There's some places which don't even card girls, if you have boobs you get a pass," she glanced over at you "-or even just, y'know, a girl body. Boobs are neither here nor there, they just help,"

 

You pulled a face, but you had to admit, that sounded a lot like your hell-home, your grungy, dirty city life - and part of you yearned for it still, so you found yourself taking the material in your hands and looking at the dress in apprehension, wondering what it would look like on your short body. Shit, it even looked expensive, like, really expensive. Most of Lorelai's things were and you didn't want to think of how much she paid for a dress like this.

 

"So, they let in underage girls but card all the lads to make sure it's just grown men that get to fuck us? Charming," you said dryly.

 

"Oh, pfft, like where you live doesn't do it. You told me the stories, you'll be right at home," she said, pressing one of her own dresses - a rather sequin-riddled number against her curvaceous body and asked for an opinion. You couldn't really believe you were doing this, you didn't club much before, preferring much more to drink in quiet dive bars or places with less music, the few times you had clubbed, you enjoyed it, even if your feet hurt and so did your head and it was impossible to talk. There was something about the sensation of soft, close, sweating bodies while your body thrummed to music and MDMA that you had to admit, was just amazing.

 

This might be the same, minus the party drugs.

 

"Place I come from cards everyone, or cards no one," you said flatly, standing up and looking at the long portrait mirror that Lorelai had put between your beds, which admittedly you found very useful as you got ready for early classes and she was still snoring.

 

You wore those sexy tights again, on Lorelai's insistence - while mumbling about making sure you brought loads of them the next time she went shopping, telling you that she intended to drag you along with her when she did it. This actually felt like the most natural thing you'd done since you landed in America - get ready to do something really fucking stupid.

 

Lorelai didn't drive, she got a taxi service to a place she called The Strip - because all of the clubs were on that long stretch of road at either side, and then a rather sad looking hotel which, the insides were impeccable, but nothing to write home about, and being on The Strip, it was fairly obvious what this place was geared at, young, vibrant, party-going students who wanted to crash and not even go home after clubbing, and maybe even have a few wild nights - well, no maybe about it. Definitely.

 

You supposed very few businessmen stayed there for business reasons. 

 

Lorelai looked gorgeous you thought, styling her hair half-down, half-up, and curling yours after a thirty minutes of prodding to do so, and once she'd done that, you'd caved and let her do your makeup. She didn't have certain things that she would rather be in alignment with your skin tone, for instance, she would have rather have used a dark bronzer than her own creamy red blush, but nonetheless, she did your eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara and picked out a shade of lipstick. You thought she was just a little bit reverent doing it, but, while you didn't leak in self-confidence, you did have to admit your lips were probably your best quality, swollen and full, bowed and inherited straight from mum. You two walked up to a large, somewhat heavyset bouncer who stood at an easy 6"1 - who didn't even ask for identification, he cast an appreciative glance, and opened the door for you.

 

The club was called DV8 - literally,  _Deviate._

 

It was like it was designed for you, and so you did - you did deviate. There were strobe lights, and loud, ear-vibrating bass drops, and a glass topped chrome bar that served drinks that were sometimes light alight and slid across to the patrons, who'd blow them out and knock them back before heading to the dance floor. You lost Lorelai rather quickly to a tall, and admittedly very handsome black man, who had eyes like gemstones and a stare that picked her out of the crowd in an instant, you found yourself dancing with a young, blond girl in a pink dress, who was grinning and wiping her nose.

 

Probably a bad cut of ecstasy - or maybe... shit. Ugh.

 

She smelled, and not of sweat, but that vague almost cat-urine like smell that came only from using a party drug you knew from back home - so you moved away from her after catching the telltale signs of MCAT on her. It wasn't that DV8 was a bad club either, there were very few bad clubs unless the staff itself were bad and facilitated an unsafe atmosphere, but all clubs, no matter how tough the rules, had the party drugs roll in. It was just how it was - and had you not been a seasoned expert, you wouldn't have noticed. Fuck, despite not knowing anybody but Lorelai, if you were inclined to go and find where the party stash was being dealt from, you had no doubt you could find it.

 

You were just that kind of girl.

 

Now this - this felt like home, finding the podium and feeling your bones vibrate against the music, you thought you might be able to see Lorelai if you got up on one of the square podiums that the mentally dubbed "Attention Seekers" often jumped on, and the moment a new girl jumped on, there'd be a series of hoots and an excited wave of expectation in the crowd. You found your body moving mindlessly, not caring that you could feel a girl pushing her waist against your backside, almost grinding from behind - you just lifted your arms up, throwing your head back and turned around, locking your body into hers so you could look over her shoulder.

 

_No Lorelai. Shit._

 

Eventually, you made your way to the bar, feeling yourself getting bumped and pushed but not in an aggressive manner, it was simply the nature of the club, and it was  _alive._

 

Several shots later, many more than perhaps an ordinary girl of your stature would take, you began to feel alive too, feeling them mix with the toxic brew of medications and hormones while your body ached and sang and screamed at you to move and dance again, to be body to body with someone. Anyone. With alcohol involved, it felt like you were having that Lizzy Effect that her neuroleptics had given you, where your body wanted to move and writhe and let that sweet feeling going down your spine travel all the way to your toes.

 

 _FUCK the HELL yes -_ who needs Deputy Dickhead to feel good? You could feel good all on your own, and for a moment, it was like you weren't sad anymore.

 

_God bless you Lorelai._

 

Eventually though, your feet started to hurt, and your inability to find her was starting to worry you, because you both agreed to take a cab back. What if she'd gone to that guy's house or was getting off with him somewhere and you wouldn't find her until morning? You ran your battery flat just trying to ring her out, and if she was still in the club, the music was drowning out her phone, or she'd left her purse somewhere, or...any number of things, really.

 

Bugger - you thought, before someone pushed you into the wall of the club, it was someone you'd danced with earlier, someone whose eyes you recognised, but couldn't tell the colour of their hair, if it was brown or black under the darkness and strobe lights, he was probably only a little older than you. You felt his hands everywhere - in response to how you'd danced, and grinded, and for a while, it felt right - especially with how your body was feeling, the only way it might have gone further was if you actually took something. From the dilation in his eyes, he must have - you could just tell, and felt yourself pushing his wrists away when they got under your chest, almost like he was trying to push your breasts up from out of your bodycon, where they were already quite pushed up from the corsetted nature of it. 

 

_Can't breathe. Can't breathe._

 

You felt his pelvis against yours - it was dancing but, against the wall, how much could you really dance back? You felt the walls closing in as more bodies came up against yours, usually the walls were a safer place in clubs, but not here, here you felt boxed in, and suddenly, that creeping feeling of hopelessness that came from being trapped in a small, dark place began to reign on you.

 

_Oh God, not a ....panic attack? Claustrophobic fit? Fuck, not here. Never here. Not when I'm clubbing. Fuck. I can't breathe. I CAN'T BREATHE._

"Fuck! Get off!" he couldn't hear you, but he saw you mouthing the words, pushing against him, but it felt and looked like more of the bump and grind dance, it's not like you hadn't done that on the podium before, grabbed wrists and told them with your body exactly where to put their hands. The room is getting darker, and darker, and darker. It might even be going pitch black, are you blacking out, or are you having an episode? Are you just too drunk...or....something more sinister...again...?

 

" _GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"_ you screamed against the music, throwing him off with all of your strength before violently shouldering the people boxing you into the space, heading for the exit. 

 

You thrust yourself into the cold night air, feeling it on your legs through your tights first, and then your face, gasping for air as the bouncer looked at you. You asked, briefly, if he'd seen the girl you came in with, and he said yes - and that she'd already left, and was quite drunk, and very much lacking your ability to hold alcohol, but didn't seem to be much more willing to help, as he was rather busy still letting in and carding people. Bouncers, you realised quickly, were not the friendliest of people when they were on the clock, and so rather than bother more of them as you walked down The Strip, you pulled over what looked like a gaggle of college girls, and they pointed you roughly to where the corner shops were, where you could probably call a cab.

 

It seemed the phasing out of the phone box was a real fucking pain in the ass when your smartphone went flat.

 

America's roads were also very, very long, and even on The Strip, you found yourself aching, and tired, and wondered if you had enough topical anaesthetic for how much you put your thighs through tonight, you were sure your ankles had even gone bright red and sore from how long you'd worn these heels and danced in them. Did you even have money for a cab back to campus? You spent a lot of your cash already so you'd probably have to hit a cash point or something. The cold air began to wane your buzz and you felt the sting of anxiety, mostly concern, for Lorelai - in your gut as you eventually found a place that was still open.

 

No corner shop, but a dive bar, with no bouncer. You supposed they carded at the counter, which was the case, but it seemed that through the night, you'd forgotten what you'd looked like, and felt stares - and heard a catcall as you came in, hips swinging and feeling the slight clench of pain from your fracture. Bugger it again. 

 

The bartender was a clean-cut sort of guy, but he had long hair tied into a greasy brunet ponytail at the nape of his neck, and a muddy, flannel shirt that was untucked against his slacks, and an eyebrow piercing in his left eye. He looked you up and down, he wasn't the only one, the whistle had gotten a few of the mopey middle-aged drunks attentions, and your voice carried easily, despite how hoarse and soft it was, your accent, again, attracting looks.

 

"Hey honey, could you slide me a G&T and phone me a cab? My battery died, and I lost my friend, so I'm kind of up shitcreek at the moment," oh yeah, gin worked wonders for injuries, you told yourself, as an excuse for ordering a gin and tonic. You slid onto a small, battered red stool, and the man - he seemed a bit taken. It wasn't that you were the hottest thing since sliced bread, but you looked good, and with alcohol, you carried yourself like a real, confident woman. You weren't in the habit of petnames with strangers either, nor were you good at flirting, but you noticed that throwing a few in often got you better customer service back home, and it seemed that in America, where your accent had novelty - this was triplicated, and the bartender didn't even card you. 

 

He might have been busy looking at your tits, which, while you thought were nothing to write home about, the dress was incredibly flattering, a dark, low v-cut, corsetted little bodycon that had netting down the diaphragm between your breasts as the only real cover between the red shoulders that held you up. It's not like there wasn't worse, you'd seen some near totally sheer things and your dress at least, was mostly solid.

 

"No problem sweet thing," said the man, and you, with the amount of alcohol in you, didn't feel the usual revulsion you felt if he would have said that to you, mostly, you were thankful he didn't card you. He poured you the drink, and you slid over a note, at least the change could probably pay the cabbie. Maybe. You hoped, only for the man to reject your money - and for someone else at the bar to slide over the cash. You frowned, and looked at them, and fuck - they had to be in their fifties, not bad looking, but clearly too old for you, and in a business suit with the top few buttons undone.

 

It was a good suit, and he looked almost out of place. He wasn't ugly either, in fact, he was honestly pretty hot, with long grey hair immaculately slicked back, and a hairline that was still youthful, and perhaps, the darkest set of green eyes you'd ever fucking seen.

 

"The gentleman over there is paying," said the bartender with a smile. "Enjoy your drink Ma'am,"

 

You resisted the urge to bristle at being called a "Ma'am," - it was so strange being recognised as an adult when you were just nineteen. You met the man's eyes, and held up your G&T in acknowledgement, before proceeding to knock it back with ease. The man was about to get up, but you felt more eyes digging into you - and a familiar voice that made all of the colour want to drain out of your face.

 

"Cancel that cab Mike, she's one of my sophomores, I'll just take her back," you snapped your head around at the familiar voice, feeling something in your stomach drop like when you were in the gymnasium late at night and the autolights had come on. Your lips blurted out the words before you could stop them, and it kept the older man in his seat as he caught sight of the very, very large and imposing presence that was slowly headed towards you.

 

"Coach Negan?" shit, bloody buggering almighty sam-fuck shitification, _SHITE_.

 

At the recognition, the bartender nodded, and put his phone away, smiling at you as the man slugged his way over. You took a moment to stare at him, not recognising him straight away when he was not wearing his VMA tracksuit, and instead, he was in a shining, zipped-up leather biker jacket that complimented his broad form so much better, with a black leather belt and jeans - honestly, it was very strange to see him dressed this way. You admitted, he did look a lot better in that jacket, and he looked a bit rough and tumble with his uncut facial hair, like an outlaw or something - someone who'd fit perfectly in a place like The Roach.

 

You realised you'd been staring, and holding your breath when he moved onto the stool next to you, giving you a once-over.

 

 _Good fucking God -_ He hardly recognised you, if not for your unmistakable voice, and your lips - once he caught sight of you and not just the back of your body - which, he had, when you'd come in and he heard the catcall, but when you sat at the end stool, he could see you from his awkwardly placed single table. The dress was....wow, the dress, you were definitely designed for the bodycon, short though you were, you looked good in it, and the heels kept your curves pert and lovely, and what legs you did have, were framed by those same tights he recognised from the day in the gymnasium when he caught you popping pills under the skylight. Your hair was curled and falling down your back and into your cleavage, messily covering one eye, and fuck - the makeup. That was good makeup - it made him realise that you had a pretty good pair of lips too, he was just distracted by how tired your eyes always looked to notice.

 

You were almost ridiculously different from the sunken-in, shattered, oddball Mort Sci student with the hair up and battered trainers. 

 

"Yep," he said after a moment, breaking you out of your daze. 

 

"Shit," was all you uttered, and just from your tone, he knew that you deduced you could be in some real trouble, and so he followed that assumption, urging you up with the natural authoritarian tone that brooked no argument which he often used with his players before he resorted to shouting.

 

"Alright you, get up, we're walking to my car," he threw some money down for his last pint, and bid the bartender goodbye, it was odd but - you felt like there was almost a sense of urgency to it as Coach Negan kept behind you, nudging you along and walking very closely, almost like a bodyguard. 

 

You weren't walking in the cold for very long but - seeing how rather sexily - or perhaps, revealingly you were dressed, Negan began undoing the belt around his leather jacket, and unzipped it in one motion, causing you to stop and look at him as he took it off and reveal a thin, white tank-top underneath. You frowned, seeing your own breathe in the coldness of the night, it was not exactly take-a-jacket-off weather, but as the cool air began fighting the buzz of your last G&T, you were slowly starting to feel the cold around your elbows and legs.

 

"Put this on, we're in the shitty part of town," he said bluntly, making you look at him in surprise, but you didn't argue, at least you were safe next to him. The guy was built like a brickshit house and with the jacket off, you could finally see what his body looked like, as the tracksuit obscured a fair amount, he was extremely toned in his front, and his back looked strong, but not as strong as it could be, it was all in his arms, if you were honest, and his legs, though strong, were easily his softest part - you could tell from his jeans. 

 

You zipped up the large jacket and found it went down to your hips almost, the sleeves longer than your arms and only fitting around your stronger shoulders, as your own work-outs had made you stronger than a lot of softer girls. You glanced at your ankles, feeling your weight slip and your fracture ache, cursing as you nearly fell, but catching yourself on a building wall and making Negan stop, and sigh, before pulling at one of your arms. He stared at you for a moment, seeing you in his jacket, it was warm and toasty because Negan had been in it all night, and it felt like you were taking his heat into yourself, but it was so large that the low-zip collar exposed much of your neckline, but still, it covered you a lot more than your dress did.

 

"Arm behind my neck, grab my shoulder, try not to twist your ankles, those fucking shoes will fuck them up hard if you have another slip," he said, and it might be the first soft thing he said all night, and you obeyed, finding your arm had more than enough room and with Negan hunched slightly to support you, even with him doing that, it was almost like you were floating as he walked you to where he'd parked his car - to avoid paying parking fees.

 

You swallowed thickly - this was the first time you'd actually touched the man and for a staff member, it felt terribly personal, but with how shitty your coordination was, you appreciated the help, it was almost like being carried. Even with a guy as built as Negan, a car slowed down, catching sight of your extremely sexy tights, with the even sexier shoes, and honked.

 

Ugh, shitty part of town, and the honking sent a stab of pain through your skull, and with the alcohol removing your filter, you lolled your head away from the coach and snarled in the angriest tone he'd ever heard from you. He heard you sarcastic, he heard you being funny, and he heard you being casual, but never angry.

 

" _FUCK OFF, CUNTFLAP!"_ between the incident of claustrophobia with Pushy, the toothless wonder catcalling you and being spotted underage drinking by a staff member, and being ditched by Lorelai, you weren't in the mood to deal with shit, which, considering it was the bad side of town, it was not the smartest move, but with the coach, you felt safe enough to retort.

 

Negan's eyes went wide and let out a guffaw before he could stop it, who knew the nerds had such a mouth on them? Or maybe it was just the English, it sounded like a very English way to swear, and the car sped off at the vitriol, and as though remembering he was supporting you last, you let out a cringe-filled apology.

 

"Fucking nice, I'll bank that one for later," he chortled, grinning. "Now, mind telling me how you got all the way to the fucking Roach?"

 

You closed your eyes and groaned.

 

"Some girls on The Strip messed up directions, in fairness...I think they were wasted too, and my coordination is...not good, and all your roads look the same... and... I don't know," you said lamely "-it just happened."

 

"Shit, you must have been walking a while, The Strip's not exactly fucking close, you're lucky you didn't run into anything....unsavoury on the way," he said with a frown "-did you?"

 

"No," you said shortly "I moved fast,"

 

Right.

 

"Coach," you said, as you finally got to his car, and he opened the front side beside the driver's seat so you could enter, and you staggered inside, dropping yourself with all the grace of a sack of rocks and fumbling with the seat belt for a few moments, missing the receptacle by a country mile the first few times before successfully clipping the belt on. "Am I in trouble?" you asked bluntly, tilting your head against his leather seat. Negan was silent until he got into the car, shoving his key into the ignition and leaning back, he didn't answer immediately.

 

Personally, he was getting a sadistic joy from watching a freshman squirm. Hehe.

 

"You good to drive?" you tried, since he'd just come from a bar, which, not wanting to come across as irresponsible, he did actually answer.

 

"I only had a few light beers, I'm good to drive, and fine if we get pulled over, so don't worry,"  he said wryly, seeing you breathe a sigh of relief as he slowly pulled out of the car lot. You couldn't help but wonder how appropriate it was to be in a teacher's car, back home it'd have raised a few eyebrows, and in some cases was utterly unacceptable, but with a US college coach and a very much legal teenager that he didn't even teach, you had no fucking clue. Somehow, even though you were no longer being held up by him, this felt more personal, because the pulling-in of the car door sealed you into a space which was exclusively his, and was small, and intimate.

 

"Coach Negan," you sounded his full name out softly to get his attention, your eyes closed and head leaned back still. "Am I in trouble? Please don't report this, it's so stupid, I've been drinking for four years now, one of those years - legally! - back home, I don't get why the age is twenty one here, but I know you can get me into shit for it," you breathed "-I don't need a record at VMA, if I cause too much trouble I could probably lose my scholarship,"

 

Shit. You were a scholarship student? You were smart enough, sure, but he just assumed you were paying and taking out loans like everybody else, he didn't know the abject poverty that you came from, your fundamental lack of understanding about the drinking age law made sense, and freshmen were dedicated to breaking it, and baring it all in mind and now knowing you were likely a poverty-quota scholarship student, he felt just a smidgen bad for making you sweat over it.

 

"Relax," he said after a moment "I'm not going to report you for what the entire freshmen body does, that's just being a dick," he laughed, seeing you melt with relief and sink into his leather car seat. "You're just lucky it was me who got you and nobody else,"

 

You opened your eyes, staring at the grey of his car ceiling, and feeling your head loll lazily into his tremendous arm when he turned the car, and your tired, almost doll-like body began lazily responding to it, like you'd gone boneless for a while, and were just savouring sitting down in a soft place, in the quiet, where it was safe even if awkward.

 

"You called me a sophomore," you whispered, feeling a headache come on.

 

"I didn't want Mike to flip," he said casually "-or lose his license, for that matter," you winced - not really considering that fact "-and I wanted to get you out of there as quickly as I could without looking like some fuckin' random creep picking up on you and shoving you into my car, Ethan might have had something to say about that,"

 

"Ethan?" you mumbled.

 

"The old fuck who got your drink," said Negan shortly, waking you up when he stopped the car in the parking lot of McDonalds, funnily enough, the exact same one where The Shane Incident had went down, and also, where you'd made out in his cruiser. Funny, now it felt tied to those memories forever. "Listen, it's all fun 'n fuckin' games going out and having a good time, that's kinda the point of college outside the degree, so this isn't me being grandpa, but you have  **got** to be more careful," he all but hissed.

 

You remembered the urgency in which he ushered you out, and frowned, putting it together haphazardly in your buzzed mind.

 

"You seemed quick to get me out,"

 

"That man - Ethan," he said shortly "-when he picks up women at The Roach, they stop coming there to drink, he's.... kind of fucked up, but he's the kinda thing I'm talking about when I say watch your ass," 

 

"I'm almost scared to ask," you sighed - only for coach to answer you bluntly.

 

"Ethan Palgrave, Google that shit, or straight Wikipedia that asshole, he's a fucking basket case, brained his wife in the head and served forty years for it. Anger problems, and yeah, he took an interest in you, so I took it upon myself to ah, shut that shit down," he smirked, watching the colour drain from your face steadily as the realisation slowly dawned on you.

 

"He killed his wife?" you said faintly.

 

"Yes, and he wanted you," he added - watching you squirm uncomfortably, it's not like you didn't know bad guys back home but you wanted very much not to mix yourself in with them over here, you couldn't. This was your fresh start, and you couldn't help but feel like finally something was familiar to you, when he said that. You surprised the coach by moving your head away from him, and letting out a low rumble of laughter from the base of your gut, which progressively got louder as he turned his head to look at you, turning on his side slightly in the car and raised a brow at you.

 

Somehow, that was just not the response Negan expected after telling you that you were almost hit on by a guy who had killed his wife.

 

"With a brick," Negan added, which seemed to make you laugh harder, watching you run your fingers through some of your curls as you rolled your head back, chest rising and falling steadily through his jacket against the seat belt. He was aiming to put the fear of God into you, but it didn't seem to be quite going how he planned. Maybe you were really, toxic-drunk, absolutely blackout inebriated, but he reasoned - you were hardly slurring and were still rather articulate for a bumbling drunkard, so he really wasn't sure what to make of your response and wondered briefly, if you were on something.

 

You opened your eyes and looked at him as you slowed down your laughter, seeing the expression on his face, and making the late connection that your reaction was at the very least, atypical. 

 

"It's funny if you know me," you said bluntly, turning away from him, exhaling out the remains of your laughter. "I have a colourful history,"

 

Negan sighed, glancing over at the largely empty McDonalds and contemplated going through the Drive-Thru and ordering something. He wasn't a fastfood guy but, since his drinking increase, he had to admit he was doing it slightly more often than he'd have liked, but it was a decent treat for a hard week of work, besides, it's not like he forced himself up at 7AM to go running just so he  _couldn't_ treat himself and not feel guilty. He didn't understand what colourful history meant, but it was becoming quickly apparent that you weren't the kind of "my parents are doctors and dentists I'm extremely upper-middle class," Indian girl, because he couldn't imagine the daughter of his general practitioner being anything like you. They were also, generally speaking, way more conservative too - and you seemed anything but, just from your state of dress and easygoing attitude.

 

"Do I even wanna know?" he said wryly, but it was a genuine question, he wasn't sure if he did. He didn't usually get very involved in student's personal lives, he just fed on the drama from a distance, the most involved he got was in the lives of his players, but he rationalised, you were going to be dating one of his star players, so when it inevitably went tits up, having some context might help. Still, it wasn't like it was actually his business, he was just very aware that he was nosy and fed off of the drama that occurred around him as a way of entertaining himself. He was a bit greedy like that, digging very subtly for information, which he got a lot of at least, around his players, who didn't really come to him for advice that often, it was more that they didn't bother silencing their locker room talk around him. He was above and also simultaneously at, the same peer level as them, so he was in a unique sort of position like that.

 

"I'm not exactly super proud of it Coach, it's just kind of what happened where I lived," you explained with a half-shrug through his jacket, before glancing at the McDonalds through the driver's side window.

 

"I thought we were going back to campus anyway?" you said with a confused frown. 

 

"I'm not cooking this fucking late when I get in," said Negan flatly, plus, he wasn't exactly a world-class chef, he got by, and did so rather healthily, but again - he wasn't really the chef sort. "It's 4AM," he pointed at the car's clock and you groaned - there was no way you were making it anywhere, especially not Microbio. "-How much have you been drinking anyway?"

 

Stupid question, he thought, as you cringed noticeably.

 

"Tequila and rum shots, mostly - and then that G&T," you said "-I spread them out through the night!" adding that defensively at the flat look he gave you, Christ's sake, no wonder you coordination was dog shit, between that, the massive heels and your stress fracture, it's a wonder you got anywhere at all, much less all the way to The Roach.

 

"Empty stomach?" he said shortly as you nodded, because it meant the alcohol got absorbed in twice as fast and while usually not a good idea, was kind of the aim of the night.

 

"Then you should eat too, it'll make the hangover slightly more manageable in the morning," he said sagely "-but you're still gonna feel like unfiltered shit,"

 

Great, but you had to admit that you were feeling that post-alcohol grease urge, where everything went hell-for-leather and your dietary urges were a complete mess and it was carnage on the waistline because it begged for a great, big, greasy, incredibly salty kebab and chips from the local chippie, however, being in America, finding a kebab shop at this time was not only short of impossible, but it wasn't like England where you couldn't go five steps without running into one.

 

"I'm getting that disgusting give-me-grease urge," you admitted, so McDonalds was rather perfect, even if Shane had sort of tainted the place. 

 

"Figured," he said, fingers ghosting over the ignition and you turned to him, an idea creeping up on you.

 

"Could we eat inside?" you asked softly "-I just, I bet it's warmer, is all - and.... " you trailed off, you were wearing his jacket and it felt like the hot air his car was pumping cool air because it seemed to be taking a while to heat up, so he was probably cold, too. 

 

"Yeah, lets not get crumbs in my ride," he said after a moment, deciding in one resolute moment to go inside and opened his car door, pulling his keys out in one sweep. You stared after him in a mixture of surprise and shock, the logic was sound enough, but he didn't even think about it, and considering the big deal Shane had made, you expected him to say no, and that he would find it awkward to eat across from you or something. You very quickly learned that Coach Negan didn't seem to care too much about people outside of his sphere of influence, and so he had no issue opening the car door for you and all but hoisting you out. You staggered a little and found him easily guiding you towards the large door, opening it first and pulling you in with remarkable ease.

 

Fuck, this was kind of embarrassing just because you were being looked after a bit like a child, but at least it didn't feel like he was taking you on a fucking school trip, which was the vibe Shane Walsh had given you.

 

Funny, considering he was actual staff at your college and Shane wasn't.

 

The McDonalds was large, with a few people in it scattered, you noticed a small group with bloodshot eyes and resisted the urge to snort, oh yeah, 24/7 fastfood establishments would have the stoners in them, that was true of England AND the USA, but you noticed that instantly this particular one was nicer than the one you went to the most at home. The tables were significantly larger, with more chairs, and there were actual booths with long, red bench seats with light cushioning on them and it didn't look like the sight of a drug bust, which, y'know, was always a plus.

 

He dropped you in a booth and sat opposite you, and again, sealed the space with a strange sense of closeness, maybe it was just the fact he was so big that he made everything including the booth seem small, yeah, you mused - that was probably it.

 

He watched as you put your small bag on the table, it was a small black bag with a rose emblazoned on the front, which could fit a wallet and a phone, but that was it - and you slid it over to him while letting out a tired yawn, feeling the fact it was four in the morning actually settle on you. The clubs were shutting down now, if they hadn't already at about three, and now all of the 24/7 establishments would be getting business, so you weren't sure how long it would take before it would get busy.

 

"What're you getting?" he said, standing up to order for the pair of you, which you thought, was rather nice of him. 

 

"Double cheeseburger," you said, closing your eyes "-fries, coke - please,"

 

Huh, it was rather a small order to him, but you were a small person, he reasoned - and in truth, you weren't used to the size of the portions here, you'd been here for about a month but you couldn't quite get used to it and so you had gotten into the habit of "under ordering" because you found yourself getting full far quicker. Coach Negan on the other hand, had the memory of you pushing your food around with a dopey expression and not actually eating it until told to, and made a split decision to change his order, sighing and getting up out of the booth.

 

College kids, he mused - they made him feel like he had his shit together by comparison. He slid your purse back to you and said nothing as he made his way to the empty line. When he came back, arms baring food, you noticed while he was gone that he hadn't actually taken any money out.

 

"I get paid more than you," said the coach flatly.

 

Well, shit, that was true, and your moped wasn't exactly cheap - so it was a good job that he had paid to be honest. You didn't buy most of your drinks being a woman and all, but you still spent more than you were comfortable with in light of your big purchase. You were a bit floored by how nice he was, but nice didn't seem like the right word - cool - on the other hand, that seemed more accurate. He's the cool teacher who doesn't bat an eyelash if he catches the smell of pot on you as you walk by, or had gotten drunk despite being under 21. To balance that of course, he was absolutely ruthless, you'd heard his screaming at the players running track before you entered the gymnasium. 

 

_Come on, you limp-dicks! I'm not your high school girlfriend, I shouldn't have to tell you to go fucking FASTER! Speed it up! Jesus pissing Christ!_

 

He had a mouth fouler than the underside of a toilet seat and he was unremittingly harsh, but his personality was surprisingly diverse, a sort of very strange charming mingled with hefty authoritarian that you struggled to find a good way of grouping in your head. He was, for instance, not only willing to eat out with you in public, even if the place was mostly empty - but he paid for it too, and if it was awkward, he didn't acknowledge it at all. It just made you wonder why on Earth this had been so hard for the sheriff deputy to do, and so you found yourself frowning, and slowly munching on your fries with a pensive look on your face.

 

Negan it seemed, had a bigger appetite, with a Big Mac and larger fries, and - fucking hell, an entire twenty-piece McNugget sharebox? You could barely finish the box on its own, let alone more than that.

 

"Thanks Coach," you said with a genuine smile "-you're the bomb," putting a fry into your mouth after stating the fact, because he was - and he was putting Shane to shame, and this, by all rights, should have been more awkward because you weren't on a date and you weren't even friends, or under him as a coach, you were just friendly acquaintances at best. Negan didn't bother hiding his smirk, in fact, he positively preened - because this was rather the goal, being the cool teacher, and he was sure he hadn't been so bluntly called it to his face before.

 

It was quite nice, he thought.

 

"I know," he smirked, taking a cocksure tone that had you shaking your head in mock exasperation.

 

"Very humble too, I might add,"

 

"Oh, the humblest,"

 

Banter. For an awkward Mort Sci student, you bantered very well, he noticed it with you and Trevor, and it was distinctly different to how you dealt with your space-case friend, where you were kind and soft. It was odd to be doing this with you, Negan was aware, but that English charm he found, was hard not to play into. He watched as you looked at him in surprise as he pushed the sharebox between your meals, and made a hand gesture telling you to help yourself as you gave him an unsure sort of look.

 

"Eat," he said insistently "-you're fucking tiny, and you might be more alcohol than blood and water right now, so, eat,"

 

"Thanks," you mumbled, brows drawn into a frown, if Coach Negan could do it - who was probably a good twenty years older than you, why was Shane so bothered? Dickless coward - you thought scornfully. "-and thanks for getting me away from that Palgrave guy then, I mean, I know I was laughing in the car but I suppose this is a different ballgame," 

 

_Your dangerous dudes have more guns, for a start._

 

"As opposed to?" So Negan decided to gently needle you for answers, it beat sitting across from each other and eating in awkward silence. You shrugged through the oversized jacket, dipping a chicken nugget into BBQ sauce - yeah, that made sense, he seemed like the barbecue sauce kind of guy. You weren't really sure how much you wanted to tell the coach, it wasn't like he was Lizzie, or even Lorelai - who would be the kinds of people you would talk about this to, but maybe telling Coach Negan wouldn't be that weird, as in, he was cool - right? Plus, he had pretty sound advice, whereas Lorelai's was to go out clubbing and Lizzie pretty much just got you high, so, if you told him - it's not like he'd give you shit for it, right?

 

"Guys with knives, knife crime was - is - a big thing back home," you said with a shrug. "-I mean I lived on a crappy little council estate, so I mean, guys like Palgrave, they just kind of... were around, and worse," you added as an afterthought "-my old secondary school was 1.5 miles away from an open prison, and about three miles in the opposite direction we had Convent girls - but uh, I didn't get into Catholic school," you said dryly "-they said I was in the wrong catchment area or whatever but let's be honest, people like our lot didn't get to mingle with their lot,"

 

"And yet, you're the one with the scholarship," said Negan with some vague amusement "-this must be fuckin' weird, huh?"

 

Yeah, no kidding.

 

"Yeah, I feel like - I feel like an impostor," you said with a frown, biting into your burger and struggling to look the man in the face, if only because you didn't want to see an expression of judgement. "I really, really wanted to do forensics and be a medical examiner or a pathologist or something, so I just focused on doing well, but... I dunno. i have to do well, I'm the first successful thing to come out of Birchwood in at least five years. But I'm out of everything that I know - I've been here a month but I still don't feel like I belong anywhere,"

 

"I guess I'm waiting for things to go wrong," you said, pausing in your eating to talk, with the filter gone it was rather relaxing being able to shoot the shit with someone. "I mean, today you were here, but it's only a matter of time. I kind of just have this thing where I attract very bad people. I don't even try, it's just sort of a thing,"

 

Negan snorted - yeah that sounded about right, women attracting dickheads, case in point: Trevor Matthews.

 

"You're small, pretty and lost most of the time, it's bound to attract some shitty characters," he said casually, ignoring the owlish look you'd given him at his bluntness. "-You should have stayed with your roommate, considering that. Two is generally safer than one,"

 

"She left me," you bit out, glancing away from him "-she left with some guy, and I stayed and looked but my fracture started to hurt after all the dancing so I had to call it quits instead of keep on looking. I ran my battery flat just trying to get her to pick up,"

 

Ah.

 

"You have a shitty friend then," he said bluntly, making you scowl up a storm - Lorelai was anything but, and so he corrected himself "-or at least, they're being shitty. If it's just two of you and you've never gone as far as The Strip before in a foreign fucking country she should have been looking out for you,"

 

You shrugged - the idea of being looked after was such an odd one to you.

 

"It's fine I mean, I take care of myself well enough, if you weren't there I'd have just gotten a cab, I don't think I'd have gone home with Palgrave or anything," but there was the key term -  _you don't think -_ you weren't sure, you might have ended up in the back seat of a car with a guy who bludgeoned his wife's head in with a brick. "I don't want Lorelai to think I can't do anything on my own, I've been partying for longer than most of these guys, I mean, they lose their shit over a few cups of beer because they've never touched the stuff before and now they're legal to do it and it's so stupid,"

 

That was true, it was pretty fucking stupid.

 

"They're excitable, go easy," said Negan off-handedly "-when I was in college, I was pretty fucking stoked I could buy cigarettes and alcohol legally when I hit 21 or I was surrounded by people who could while I was a freshman and didn't have to pay some homeless asshole to go inside of 7/11 and do it for me,"

 

"Uh, should you be admitting to that? Breaking laws and stuff? You're staff, or something," you said in amusement, almost choking on a fry as you laughed and covered your mouth with your hand.

 

"I'm barely staff, they have me for the sports team and when the people doing Phys Ed degrees need a TA for something," he pointed out "-besides, even those uptight military students - their teachers probably did this shit too. I know for a fact they like a drink, and you're telling me the people from the social sciences building don't light up a blunt?"

 

You swallowed and stopped choking, knowing exactly which kinds of staff member he was referring to, it was just weird hearing a staff member talk about lighting up a blunt so casually.

 

"Is that why you're being so cool with me?" you said, smiling at him almost shyly, because you noticed how much he preened under the comment and it was a strange ability to have, being able to make a musclebound forty-something visibly preen.

 

"I remember being in college like that shit was yesterday," Negan chuckled "-you drink, you fuck, you smoke, do whatever - experiment, and then between all that, drag yourself to a class. What you're doing is....actually normal, even if you have class in a few hours," he remembered, and you cringed.

 

"Don't you have work?"

 

"Nothing to do until 2:00PM, but you usually have a morning thing, if I remember," he said - since that was why he needed the laundry key, and you flushed a little - having been called out on cutting your first college class. 

 

"Uh, I don't think I'm making it to my 9AM, two and a half hour Microbiology class," you laughed "-honestly my roommate dragged me out because I was moping and I was dying to get out and do something, and uh, getting trashed kinda helps me feel like I'm home,"

 

"Yeah you're probably going to be asleep for most of it," he deadpanned, he couldn't recall anybody he spoke to back in his day who'd drag themselves to a 9AM after a night out "-I think I caught you moping in the gymnasium, can I be a nosy prick and ask what that was about?"

 

He figured while you had alcohol in your system and he'd shared his food, it'd be as good a time as any to ask.

 

"It was stupid," you continued to laugh, shaking your head "-I had a really shit date because the guy didn't want to take me in here because his work colleagues were there and I guess that was too embarrassing for him, or I'm not hot enough or whatever. It was so stupid, but I felt pretty insulted and I didn't want to have to explain it to anyone so I just hung out there until Lorelai went to bed,"

 

You just neglected to mention it was the fucking deputy sheriff, but he didn't need to know that. What Negan was more surprised over was that you were happy enough to call McDonalds a date and that your - likely older - partner who was definitely not Trevor from the sounds of things, but there was nothing wrong with playing the field, he just didn't expect it from a nerdy student who poked dead people for a living. 

 

"What a prick," said Negan casually "-you're definitely hot enough so he was just being a prick, I can get why you'd be upset," he watched as splotches of red came up briefly against your face, shaking your head as he complimented you in a blunt and factual manner so as not to feel like he was being creepy or anything. 

 

"Without sounding like an A-class creep, I hardly fucking recognised you until you spoke, so whoever this other guy was, he sounds like a fuckin' bozo," he said, between sips of cola "-and Trevor's in for a real treat," he said earnestly, making you smile shyly in response, feeling your ears burn a little from being complimented by someone older and wiser than yourself. "I ah, overheard - it was kind of hard not to," he added, as he'd been present when you agreed to a date.

 

"Yeah, I thought I'd give someone closer my age a shot, he's been a bit....blasé but he's a frat guy, so I shouldn't be surprised, I might even have fun," you shrugged "-it can't be fucking worse than S-- than my other date."

 

He noticed you almost said a name, but stopped. Interesting.

 

"Trevor's alright," and if you dressed anything like you were tonight, he was going to treat you the way he treated most bombshells, and with a passing, almost guilty thought, the words  _Freshman Fling_ came to mind and he comforted himself with the knowledge that you were self-aware enough to know the sorts of ways that the boys of Fi Kappa Sci referred to you, so you might have an idea that this wasn't anything serious. It  _really_ wasn't Coach Negan's place to intervene.

 

"He gets a bit single-focus on something for a while, but he's not the worst, you could do a lot worse," he said - making the decision not to say anything.

 

"I guess he must at least like me a little to be so fucking persistent," you shrugged.

 

_Ah, fuck. He's gonna break this girl's heart, I just know it._

 

"Come on, we should get you back to campus."

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Everybody Loved Trevor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it all goes down in this bit, appreciate reviews and kudos's, so thanks guys <3

 

Trevor Matthews falling on his face was probably the most comedic reaction he could have had, but he didn't get the privilege of seeing what you looked like on Wednesday evening. He completely lost his footing and fell face-first into the gym floor, with several of his teammates laughing playfully at him as he did so. Pain reverberated through his body as he felt the cool, lacquered gymnasium floor underneath him, he opened his eyes slowly, wincing in pain and blinking until his vision was crisp again. The first thing he caught sight of was a pair of dark black heels first, that were thin, and rode up to four inches high. 

 

He swallowed thickly, craning his head up and taking in the sight of netted tights up your legs until you put your hand in front of his face and pulled him up to his feet, mirth in your eyes.

 

"Very impressive falling, colour me impressed," you teased.

 

"It is a talent of mine," said Trevor in good humour, slowly rising to full height and towering over you. He had a nice sort of body, rather slender for a football player, but he moved quickly and fantastically on the field, but still a little more built than most. You gave him a once-over considering you were about to go on a date with him, saying you'd meet him after practice so you could hit the evening showing of Kong after your laundromat shift - he was still in his gym gear, but had a nice shirt (in his opinion, anyway) tucked away in his locker.

 

"You look..." he trailed off, and being that this wasn't the first time you had this conversation, you finished his sentence for him with an annoyed twinge.

 

"Cute?" because as flattering as it was, puppies were cute - and you didn't want to be cute, you wanted to be more than that and nurse some of your shitty self-esteem.

 

"I was gonna go with hot," Trevor admitted with a short laugh, taking your outfit as an improvement over the last he saw you in, from a purely shallow standpoint anyway, as this dress had built-in lift and you being as short as you were, it'd give him an ample view of your chest during the movie trailers. Trevor did, however, possess enough brain cells not to voice this thought out loud, and the truth of it was - he really did like old movies, and he was genuinely happy to see one with somebody who actually wanted to see it with him. He watched as a blush rose to your features and there was considerable whooping from his team mates, which had you rolling your eyes.

 

"Actually I got bored waiting for you, but it seems you guys ran over," you said, glancing around at the tired players and then at coach. You hadn't seen him since you delivered the fresh laundered uniforms the day prior, and that had been an experience. He caught you with pitch black sunglasses on to keep the sunlight out, and you were very sluggishly pushing the laundry cart and looking like death warmed over after he got you back to campus. In truth, all you'd managed was an awkward "Hey," and didn't know whether you acknowledge him more when you see him or if you stay as you are with him. You settled for smiling if you caught his eyes around campus and being just a little more friendly, considering he did you a major solid and all.

 

"Yeah sorry about that," said Trevor, even though it wasn't his fault, noticing you stare over his shoulder, but he was too busy looking at you in this little red dress, and decided that it was definitely your colour "-but damn do you look good in red,"

 

"Alright, hit the showers assholes, that'll have to do," said Coach Negan with displeasure - the session could have gone better, hence him dragging it over the usual designated time he ended it and had the gymnasium booked out for. He didn't actually realise how much he'd ran over until you felt the need to come in and wonder where on Earth your date was, and distracted his entire team with your presence the moment the sound of heels echoing hit the gym floor. Trevor noticed you catch the man's stare, and smile at him, and though the coach didn't return it, he nodded his head once in acknowledgement at you.

 

"Am I missing something here? I feel like I'm missing something," said Trevor in confusion.

 

"Huh? Oh, I got lost in town after Lorelai got split from us and he happened to see me and he got me back to campus," you said, and that was an omission-heavy explanation, but you really didn't want to explain your party habits to Trevor lest he try to convince you to go to more Fi Kappa Sci parties, and you also didn't want to have to explain how strange that night had actually gotten. Thankfully, he didn't press you for details, accepting the explanation with ease but more-so struggling with the idea of Coach Negan doing something nice. He was staring at you like a grew an extra head.

 

"That sounds a little too nice for him," said Trevor in low tones, and you just shrugged. If you considered how he spoke to the sport's teams, you could see how it would be something that Trevor struggled to picture.

 

"There's actually a pretty chill guy under all that shouting and swearing," you defended "-you just don't ever really see him out of the context of him training and coaching you for professional sports, but he's actually an okay guy,"

 

Trevor looked massively skeptical, and privately thought that if Coach Negan was nice to you, it was a boy-girl thing and probably you unwittingly using the fact you had the ability to be quite cute mixed in with a cluelessness for certain things about the states, it'd be easy to see why even a hardass might be nice to you. In fact, if you had any idea how he referred to you in passing when talking to Trevor about getting distracted, you might not think he was so "okay".

 

_Try not to get distracted by that sweet piece of ass, because that's not going to get you scouted._

 

It wasn't like he was alone in saying it, he probably was just because his teammates did and that was just the nature of how they spoke to each other, but if you thought the coach was such a nice guy, Trevor mused - you would be surprised. Sure, you'd caught his filthy tongue a few times when you'd come in and heard him shouting obscenities but unless he was coaching you, you had no idea of how much of a "not nice" guy he was.

 

"Yeaaaahh, I'm gonna go ahead and take your word for it, why don't you go wait outside by my car - it's the red corvette, you can't really miss it. I'll get changed quick, I promise," he said, before quickly turning his heel and heading for the showers with the others. You sighed, shaking your head, before turning to walk yourself out of the gym, heels clicking along the floor as you did so. Personally, you couldn't believe he drove a corvette - you didn't know much about cars, but it looked about as nice as Lorelai's own Mercedes and you had to wonder just how many of the college students who attended VMA were super upper-class.

 

Fucking hell, they had better cars than some staff members did in some cases, and so you were left leaning against it and idly playing with your phone until Trevor arrived. When he did, you were greeted with the sight of him in a pair of fitted, blue jeans and an admittedly nice dress shirt on, which yes, he did get teased for on his way out, but he didn't care overmuch. Your eyes were mostly focused on how lovely his brunet hair looked while it was damp, and he'd clearly tried to give it a quick comb, but the wind made it fall out of place, which somehow looked better. His mousy features were brought out to the forefront with his look and yes, you could see that Trevor Matthews was indeed quite lovely to look at.

 

"This place, you'll love it - they only refurbed it last year and all they do is show old films. Mostly, anyway, they occasionally show a summer blockbuster but they'll play all the indie stuff too," said Trevor excitedly. You glanced at him as he drove, and found the excitement to be genuine, his brown eyes practically sparkling.

 

"It's super cool if you're into horror movies, um, Lorelai told me about your posters..." he trailed off, as though trying not to infer you were a creepy person overall and not just because of your major, he skirted around it.

 

"It's fine, yeah I'm kind of into horror movies," you admitted "-I mean I guess it makes sense. Mort Sci. Horror. Goes together like cheese on toast, right?" 

 

"Right," said Trevor with a grin "I saw  _The Town That Dreaded Sundown_ there last, it wasn't too bad. I don't watch that much horror, I'm more of a rom-com kinda guy, or anything with Nicholas Cage in it, y'know?"

 

You snorted unattractively, and Trevor was stuck with the name  _Ghost Rider_ for the duration of your date. The theatre itself was a small place wedged between two other buildings and looked like something plucked straight out of the 90s and refused to change, with a strange sort of "I thought this was cool in the 90s" kind of name -  _The Electric Lagoon,_ with only one person working a ticket stand, of which there were four. Even the tickets looked different to every kind of cinema ticket you'd ever had, which back home, were more like printed receipts. You were given a tiny rectangle of blue card-like paper in the shape of a token with the screen name on it and nothing else. Just the number twelve.

 

It was kind of like a trip through time, if you were honest - and it was amazing. The screen was much larger than you thought, all of the chairs were a classic red, and Trevor even splashed out on a hideously oversized "Blood Orange" flavoured slushie, which, upon drinking, you felt like you'd turned instantly diabetic from the amount of sugar that undoubtedly loaded into it. 

 

You barely paid attention to Kong - because there was only one straw, which you thought Trevor might have done on purpose, and found him kissing you in the dark. There weren't that many people seeing the movie, maybe all of six, if you didn't include yourself, all spread out through the small showing. You didn't want to be  _that couple -_ but it was kind of hard not to be, because Trevor Matthews was not only a funny Nicholas Cage-loving idiot, but he was a surprisingly good kisser. 

 

"Whoa there Ghost Rider," you gasped out shortly - feeling his hand travelling up your left knee, and to his credit, he didn't move it when you said that, but he didn't take it off either. "We're missing King Kong scaling the tower,"

 

Trevor chuckled deeply, murmuring low into your ear so that you didn't disturb anybody with the conversation, and the noise.  

 

"I don't know how much I can pay attention when you make those tiny little noises," he smirked.

 

You chewed on your lip - and he took that as a sign to keep moving up, and you didn't know whether it was a good or smart idea to do this on a first proper date even if you'd been corresponding for a lot longer than this, it didn't feel right to be doing this right away. But, you reasoned - it wasn't like Trevor wasn't hot, of course he was hot, and when was the last time you'd had any real action? So far, you'd had a disappointing date with the deputy, you almost ended up doing something weird with fucking Lizzie Samuels of all people, and then? You'd probably locked into more bodies at DV8 than you had in a long time, and you moved with a thirst to be found attractive, and desirable - all the things that the deputy hadn't quite managed to make you feel.

 

"Why are we doing this here?" was the question that you shuddered out, it wasn't a stop, or a 'someplace else' - or anything of the sort, instead, it was insecure confusion. It wasn't a stop, or a breathy request to do it later, somewhere else, or even a 'why are you doing this?' at all because you knew that Trevor Matthews at the very least, thought you were hot. You just wanted to know, because the keening need was something else, you needed to know if it was really that you were so attractive to him that he couldn't resist doing it right here. He was a frat guy after all, he got tons of girls, he was on the sport's team too - but however lazy his courting was, he still kept at you long when most would have given up, and that couldn't have been for the banter, surely. Nobody enjoyed getting insulted that much.

 

His answer surprised you, but it drove shivers down your spine, like somehow, Trevor knew exactly what you were looking for, the only other answer which would have pleased you other than _I can't resist_.

 

_"Because it's illegal,"_

 

* * *

 

 

You had your head in the clouds on the Monday that followed, enough that you were as spacey as Lizzie was on any average day. She smiled when she saw you, and asked how your date went, as though what happened in her bedroom hadn't happened, which was relieving, but just a slight bit awkward. How does anyone begin to address it anyway? It's not like you did anything but it was clearly too awkward for it to be passed off, but you were trying to pass it off anyway. She didn't seem concerned by it at all, and you had to wonder if anything ever shook Lizzie Samuels.

 

Calling her Lizzie Borden never bothered her, her having nobody to sit or work with never bothered her, outright snarkiness from the other Mort Sci students - none of it seemed to shake her, you envied it, to be honest.

 

"Well, besides me and Trevor breaking a few public indecency laws I think, it went pretty well," you said dryly - the two of you being teacher's pets also had you doing a little more than classwork, and the pair of you were headed for where the supplies for Mort Sci had been dropped off, which gave you ample time to gossip without disrupting other students.

 

"Oh, you're naughty," Lizzie giggled, before the pair of you fell silent and opened the door to storage.

 

You were met by the sight of a long, white desk, which surprised you, you honestly just expected it to be an inventory room, but there were stacks upon stacks of boxes and some of them sealed quite tightly, and a computer at the desk. There was a guy sitting at it who you recognised as someone you saw milling around the Science Institute, but didn't know who he was. He was a heavy set sort of guy, with a rather placid expression and a surprisingly thick mullet which looked entirely out of place, and he seemed to be typing slowly, looking immensely bored.

 

"Erm, Mr Porter?" you glanced and saw a nametag on him - was he staff? Oh, he was probably a student, you realised, because this looked like a work-study kind of job. Just an old student.

 

"Just Eugene," said the man shortly, surprising you with how flat his monotone was "-what are you needing, Ma'am?"

 

You stared at him, before quickly handing him the note Professor Mattius had given you, and he didn't respond, silently taking it and typing more things on his computer. You glanced at Lizzie, who looked at you and shrugged, silently acknowledging that the guy seemed a little off, before he spoke again.

 

"Right, Mortuary Science Department - you'll be needin' that new case of formalin," he gestured with his finger to an empty trolley beside the boxes which you supposed was to move everything in inventory around. "-I've checked it out for you, so just load it up and take the staff elevator,"

 

It seemed that this Eugene Porter wasn't big on getting up out of his chair or off of his computer to help, leaving you two girls on tip-toes, grabbing the boxes and slowly loading them up. Lizzie glanced at you, before taking the trolley and pushing it ahead of you, closing the door. You looked over at her, and quickly jogged to meet her pace, realising that she was walking away from the staff elevator, and was headed for a different room entirely. The further you followed her, the more you realised you were heading down to where pathology was.

 

"Hey, Lizzie, you're going the wrong way!" you called, frowning.

 

"Come with me, I want to show you something," she said, leaving the trolley outside and heading for the autopsy room of the John Doe. You watched as she tip-toed to look through the small glass window fitted into the door, and then push her way in when she was sure nobody was inside.

 

Okay, this was officially strange, you hadn't seen Lizzie since you pulled out that piece of brain in the John Doe, and had class that day, but you hadn't seen each other socially without something to work on with that as the background. This was probably the closest you had to that, since the incident with the pills in her room. You left the trolley outside and walked in, finding the body had been returned to the cold chamber while it wasn't worked on, you still felt a bit nervous being in there on your own without somebody knowing that you were there, and could vouch for you if caught - like one of the PhDs.

 

"Where's Justin and Linus?" you asked, frowning continuing as Lizzie walked you over to the computer where they ran prints, and boldly plonked herself into a chair with more resolve than you'd ever seen from her.

 

"They're at the Body Farm, but we don't have long," she said shortly, making you glance between the door and logged in - how did she have the login? It became very apparent to you very quickly that Lizzie noticed far more than she let on, and had been leering over Dr Eichmann and doing some sleuthing of her own, not just you. You'd never seen her act with so much purpose before, and found yourself nervously looking back at the door - the doctor's stern words echoing in your head when you had gone up to him with the cerebrum piece in your pliers. The words "active case" came to mind, and Lizzie's own -  _tampering._

 

"Lizzie - what're you doing? We can't be caught in here," you hissed urgently, only for her to let out a low hum, like this was a walk in the park, silently pulling up the autopsy report. "Seriously, we have to go, Eichmann nearly passed a fucking kidney stone when I did extraction, we can't be caught in here, they'll wipe us off the intern list at the very fucking least,"

 

"Listen," said Lizzie, tossing some of her blonde hair back behind her shoulder to look at you. "I know you've been throwing yourself into this recently, Justin told me, and I know you've been really active with the John Doe since your disaster date, and I thought - well, Dr Eichmann left himself logged in and went on lunch while I was shadowing Linus going through the pathology measurements on all the organs, I took a quick look and I noticed something... weird."

 

"It's not our..." you trailed off, shaking your head "-shit," you sighed, leaning in to her chair to look up at the screen. "Fine, we're already breaking the rules, what's weird?"

 

"There was this weird drug that came up on the toxicology report that nobody has mentioned, not even the PhDs - look it's up here, see? They found traces of it on the inside of his eyelids, how many drugs do you know that get into eyelids?" she pointed the mouse under a word on the report -  _Scopolamine._

 

"I googled it and--"

 

You finished her sentence, brows drawn into a frown, you'd come across that in a book - you know you had, but it wasn't part of the curriculum. It came with the speciality kind of reading you'd done when chasing after the lives your cousins had, their very much illegal lives.

 

"Burundanga," you breathed - that was its other name, and she looked at you in surprise, only for you to cut off the inevitable question of how you knew that, Lizzie came to understand that you were a person who was not only quite book-smart, but smart in quite a few strange array of things. "But how -- that doesn't show up on a toxicology report, and why would he - I mean he's just some mid-fifties John,"

 

"A John with a bit of brain in his stomach," said Lizzie flatly "-and Dr Eichmann found it on his eyelashes, the only way you can identify it is if you run the powder directly against other samples, once it's ingested it is almost impossible to tell. He sent the guy's eyelashes in for testing, but that's not the strangest part."

 

You bit down on your lip and felt a headache coming on.

 

"I don't get it, why didn't anyone mention this when we were shadowing?"

 

"Active case? I don't know, Dr Eichmann's been really secretive over it, but look - see this over here? This is what I wanted to show you, because he was acting really weird when the labs came back and said it was human brain. I mean, any one would be weird after that but he was acting especially strange," she said, leaning back in the chair.

 

"Wouldn't you? Anyway, what am I looking at? I'm starting to think I should just mind my own business, the more I get involved the more I end up talking to Shane anyway," you muttered.

 

"I just think it's important that we try to help get him identified, think about it, if he doesn't get identified then his family won't ever find him or even know he's dead and he gets a state burial and --and you were in that same class. You know what they do, and nobody deserves that," said Lizzie quietly, making you look at her oddly.

 

"You care about this too much," you sighed, shaking your head.

 

"Maybe I do," said Lizzie in agreement, glancing at the cold chamber behind you before turning to the computer. "But you do too, or you wouldn't have been poking around in his stomach - we both know he died horribly, it doesn't mean his after-death has to be even worse,"

 

You groaned, this was definitely a Lizzie thing - caring way too much about things and people that didn't care about her, even if she conducted herself like she had no cares in the world, she was definitely somebody who wanted the people around her to be okay, she was a good person, but utterly odd - no denying that.

 

"Look Lizzie, we're just first years, I mean - spectacular ones, don't get me wrong, we probably work harder than most, but we can't get involved in this," you said, glancing back at the screen. Lizzie showed you two things - the toxicology report that came from the man's eyelashes, and then something else queer on the report, as if the bit of undigested cerebrum in his digestive tract wasn't odd enough.

 

"We've gone over John with a fine tooth comb, us, Linus, Justin and Eichmann - there's nothing we can hand over to the PD that will pull this guy up on a database, he's completely clean, and just - think about it, okay? No nails, no teeth - pulled out after death, meaning somebody doesn't want him found, a dis-inhibitor drug on his eyelashes and brain in his stomach, and what you've just shown me is that Eichmann has sent an omitted version to the PD. Now, we can send them the legit version, but it might get traced back to us, and we get in serious trouble. We're probably breaking like, a million data protection laws!" you hissed.

 

"But why?" Lizzie pressed "-why is Eichmann omitting the Scopolomine from his toxicology report?"

 

"If our John Doe has brain in him, and he was killed by blunt force trauma, put it together - maybe they made him do something he didn't want to do and it's why he's dead. I don't know what you googled but Burundanga is dangerous, it - it turns you into a lost, drooling child, the  _devil's breath -_ people do things they wouldn't ever usually do!" you retorted.

 

"So the police should know!" Lizzie said back, with more seriousness than you'd ever seen "-because maybe he isn't some brain-eating freak and maybe the police can catch whoever did this if they know they've got to trace this drug down, I mean it's super rare right? Really rare, and you sound like you know more about it than me so you should know too."

 

You closed your eyes - Lizzie was too good. Too good of a person, and being good got you into more trouble than being bad sometimes, so you silently logged her out of the computer, and put your hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her out of the chair. 

 

"Lizzie listen, we need to get out of here and forget what we saw, I'm sure Eichmann has his reasons for not sending the PD an updated autopsy report, okay? Maybe he's waiting on something else, or getting a second opinion or something, but just - look, look, break it down quickly. We have somebody whose got all of their teeth and nails missing, and traces of Scopolomine on his eyelashes and inner eyelids, and brain in his stomach. If he has Scopolomine inside of him than we know it's got something to do with a serious drug ring, maybe even the cartels, because that's straight Colombian, and he doesn't look like someone who gets involved in that. He looks like someone who golfs and works in advertising," you said dryly "-which means something bigger is going on, maybe Eichmann needs to confirm a few things, I don't know. What I do know, is that this isn't any of our business, and that we should leave, and pretend like we were never here, understood?"

 

Lizzie closed her eyes and sighed.

 

"I think you should call Shane."

 

You scowled and headed for the door.

 

"Forgetting how we even came upon this information, we can't get involved in this Lizzie. Now c'mon, Mattius will probably think we got lost or something and come looking, the last thing we need is anyone finding us here."

 

* * *

 

 

Fucking hell what a headache, Lizzie was getting overly involved with the John Doe and now you had a lot of niggling, annoying questions, and found yourself trusting Justin and Linus a lot less. She only found out about the eyelash thing because Eichmann had left out the results under a pile of toxicology papers on the way out of the room to go to the bathroom, and that was when she looked at the updates on the autopsy report and saw which one he'd sent off. She had the opportunity to ask him about it when she came back, but something inside her told her not to, and she was very correct in doing so. The original assumption was that she could lose her place on the intern list for being so nosy and getting on Eichmann's bad side, but after the talk with you, she was starting to feel like perhaps there was something a bit more sinister afoot.

 

That's when you got the letter, who the fuck sends letters? It could have been a text, but you realised, texts left a trail, and paper simply didn't. It was not elegant, nor was it at all subtle, it was typed and written in a flat, Arial font and sat in the centre of an A4 sheet of paper. You stared at it in abject disbelief when it had been slid under your dorm room door, and opened it quickly to find the building empty - you asked the RA, but she hadn't seen anybody, and said that there were no cameras in the inside of Unilocks, just outside, due to privacy concerns, but that she didn't have access to them, but told you to report the thing to campus security.

 

_Stay away from the John Doe, or you'll wish you were on that autopsy table._

 

It was crude and pathetic, and coming from a back end council estate, you couldn't help but snort, even if you found it unsettling, you weren't scared. Perhaps you should have been, somebody removed the John Doe's jaw, then his nails on his hands and his feet, if ever there was a reason to be scared, this would be one. Campus police ended up calling the actual police, but thankfully they sent somebody who wasn't in a uniform, and not Shane - because no names had been mentioned, and copies had been made of the letter, they were taking it seriously because it was involved in an "active case" - and DI Cortez was probably going to get a copy, but, you were told not to worry.

 

Why? Because it was a smoke signal, a warning shot so people wouldn't actually have to action their threat.

 

"People who say they're going to do something, so seldom do it, people who want to hurt another person rarely leave calling cards," was what Officer Calhoun had told you, and you knew that was mostly correct, but the fact was - somebody wasn't happy about your interaction with the John Doe, and if you had to think about it, it was probably because you were the one who discovered the cerebrum in his digestive tract, somebody clearly didn't want you to.

 

Shit.

 

"Why are you so stressed? Are things not going well with Trevor?" Lorelai had asked, and you shook your head. No, Trevor was fine, and the date had ended in fireworks, but you found yourself taking twice the amount of short-course sleeping tablets than you usually were, but it told you your intuition was correct when you dragged Lizzie from the computer, but it wasn't doing your appetite much good. You'd skipped out on your meals for about two days since the incident and Lizzie noticed, so did Lorelai - because she heard your stomach rumbling at night.

 

"It's just this case we have in the autopsy room, you um, you don't wanna hear about it," you said - and predictably, Lorelai pulled a face at "autopsy". You were in a bit of a mood with her for a while, but discovered she'd gone home with the man she'd met, and put herself in a fair amount of danger doing so, and you ended up shouting about that more than her leaving you, because you at least had the coach to take you back to campus.

 

"Ugh, you're right, I don't - anyways, squeeze your ass into this, we're going to a party," she said bluntly, throwing a dress at your face.

 

You couldn't help but think associating with Lorelai had you wearing more dresses in a few months than your entire nineteen years on this Earth. 

 

"Consider it like, an early 20th b'day bash - yours is this week anyway? Consider it a pre-party to the actual party!" said Lorelai happily, bouncing in a pair of bubblegum pink high heels which made you wonder how she felt confident enough to jump in them and not worry about snapping the heel, which had been your worry while you had been at DV8. You looked at her and wondered how she had any time at all to actually maintain her studies, and shook your head, knowing that if you didn't go, you'd be subjected to her complaints about it for the foreseeable future.

 

"Fine, maybe it'll take my mind off things," you sighed, closing your eyes and putting your copy of the letter away in one of your textbooks so you wouldn't have to deal with it, and reluctantly began looking at the little blue dress that you'd been given, and wondered if you could pull it off.

 

"Maybe you'll make it with Trevor again," she teased, making you scoff, and throw your pillow at her off of your bed.

 

"I don't know why I even bothered telling you that,"

 

Still, Lorelai was good about helping you get ready, if you didn't know any better, you'd think you were her dress-up doll, and that she'd be better suited to a fashion and beauty sort of course, but didn't voice it. You'd probably offend her or something if you did, and her parents, you learned, were very much the stereotype of a rich Jewish family, with exceedingly high set of expectations that they expected all three of their children to abide to and rise to, Lorelai was no exception, and got especially hard treatment growing up.

 

She had been grounded for most of her life, which explained why she was currently attempting to play beer pong with the boys in Fi Kappa Sci's frat house, while you stood off to the side, feeling Trevor Matthews slink his arms around your waist, and press his front into your back.

 

"Why can't I get the stupid thing into the thing!?" she hissed, making you roll your eyes and shake your head - everywhere you looked were toes smashed in stilettos and cocktail dresses or short, short outfits which were easily ripped off of the shelves of designer outlets, even the boys were in dressed down mangy Chucks and True Religion shirts, and if not for Lorelai dressing you up, you might not have felt like you belonged here. It was quiet at first, but that's how it always was - until the busloads of students started to roll in where all they needed to do was show their student ID at the door, and if they were women - not even that.

 

The boys, you notice, almost seem a little lost and not at all like the kinds of strong-jawed, built, sexually charged animals that you expected from all of the films and the stereotypes, but the camaraderie was definitely there. There were some, of course, but they were not the majority as you would expect. Some of the sport's team greeted you when you saw them, and you nodded, smiled - said your hello's, but focused on downing as much alcohol in those stupid little red cups as you possibly could to avoid the thoughts of that stupid letter. It had been a day since you'd received it, but it was still on your mind.

 

Your eyes fell on the people with the flashiest, most expensive looking clothes and the whole thing reeked of "daddy's money," - like Lorelai, if you were honest, but they didn't seem so sinister, in fact, a lot of them were social sciences and arts students, and so long as you kept Mort Sci out of it, you actually got on rather well, finding yourself bumping cups with a buxom blonde girl with a pleasant smile.

 

It felt like an extended prom night, at first, but with beer and testosterone hanging heavily in the air and Trevor's wandering hands whenever he broke away from his boys and caught you in a new room in passing - it was turning into a fun game of cat and mouse if you were honest, and Trevor was something of a fun-loving idiot.

 

It was actually kinda cute.

 

"You get me and I'll get you and whoever has the most gets by 2AM has to pay for the next date," - it was unheard of, and a little weird, but it was an adorable kind of weird. Trevor had gotten you from a broom closet in the frat house - which had very, very unused cleaning supplies, and you in turn, had hidden behind one of the varsity basketball boys, after telling him what the game was, and suddenly crept out from behind him, hand landing squarely on Trevor's backside, making him jump so hard that the beer spilled out of his hand and all the way down his wrist onto the carpet.

 

"Get!" you yelled, before turning in your too-large heels to sprint in the other direction, missing the adventurous gleam in Trevor's eyes. 

 

"Oh, now it's on!" he grinned.

 

And it had been for a while - he'd gotten you in the courtyard, and you'd gotten him in the bathroom, by jumping out from behind the shower curtain and pouncing directly onto him, smashing your lips clumsily onto his, tasting the beer on his lips.

 

"Got you," you breathed, before bolting out of the bathroom. You couldn't remember when you had this much fun, it beat awkwardly standing around and watching people play beer pong, it just wasn't your idea of a good time - but this? This was. You found yourself rapidly running out of places to hide from him during Gets though, and had walked in on a couple about to have sex in your efforts to hide in the frat house, so the heat was dialling up as 2:00AM began to roll around, and playing Gets was getting a lot more difficult in these heels and with the growing amount of alcohol you'd consumed.

 

Someone brought tequila when the kegs ran dry, and you were feeling it when you felt Trevor kissing you in the lobby, his hand landing on the small of your back. You felt tingles shooting up from the base of your spine all the way to the top of your head, and you hand to wonder if this made you an actual thing or not - or if you were just feeling dizzy from the shots.

 

"You win," Trevor breathed, his lips a little swollen from drunk, rough treatment you'd given them, causing you to giggle slightly.

 

"I always do," you said, feeling your tongue get heavy and a strange, queasy feeling in your gut. "Hold - I'm gonna go to the... bathroom, I think I'm wasted,"

 

Trevor chuckled at you, and asked if you needed help up the stairs to the toilet- making you cringe and shake your head, griping for the banister tightly as you kept one foot in front of the other - knowing Lorelai was in one of the rooms with some of the gal pals she made tonight, you didn't want to go and cramp her style, but you were starting to feel like that tequila and shitty beer was going to make another round trip out of your face and directly into the toilet. This was not at all glamorous, you mused, but it reminded you exactly of home.

 

And so, you didn't complain too much when your knees hit the porcelain tile and you began to throw up, only for that queasy feeling to intensify, and feel like you were having moments of utter tunnel-black, like when you were close to getting pass out drunk, which took a lot of work.

 

You had to wonder just how much tequila you poorly spaced out through the night to end in this position, before you felt the sensation of pure coldness under your skin - and your heart feeling like it was impossibly loud, and pounding in your ears with an uncomfortable familiarity. Groaning softly, you weakly moved your right hand, which you felt etching along the tile of the bathroom and dipping into the plaster crevices where it had been glued into place. You tried to force your eyes open, but only managed them a fraction, mostly staring through blurry eyelashes, you caught sight of the white floor, and realised with some embarrassment that you'd fallen.

 

_Fu..ck...._

 

It was like somebody had hit "slow down" on your thoughts, and you would be very surprised if you could even move your jaw much, so you laid on the ground and decided to groan and moan until somebody heard you and could pick you up and put you on a chair and fetch Lorelai or something. Somebody would come. Eventually. You weren't really sure how long you were on the floor for, but your eyes fell shut and you felt some firm arms around your left, dragging you up and forcing you to realise just how pathetically limp you had gone, your body reduced to a series of weak twitches and trembles.

 

_N..o...way...am I this...wast.e.d..._

_"Trevrrrr...?"_ that was pathetic, even to your own ears.

 

_Where's Trevor...?_

 

_Where's Lorelai?_

 

Where's anyone? Was somebody going to take you home? Maybe it was one of her new friends, or the friendly basketball guy. You forced your eyes open, and found everything in blurred triplicate, which was absolutely nauseating, forcing you to shut your eyes before you threw up down your breasts. Your heart felt like it was amped up and was going twice as fast as it usual, like somebody had fed it a direct line of pure caffeine and nothing else, or morphine, or fentanyl - or some equally ridiculous substance, it just felt like it might absolutely come out of your chest.

 

It hurt to breathe, and you felt something soft under you - which had to definitely be a bed cover. You were in a bedroom, someone was letting you sleep it off in the frat house. Yeah.

 

_S...l...e e...p...?_

 

You felt a hand on your thigh, and a dull sensation which reminded you of the theatre, and you tried to open your eyes, but the felt too heavy, and suddenly, it was like you were disconnected to the rest of yourself, but your whole body was still switched on, it was a strange and awfully familiar sort of sensation, but also entirely in it's own class, as usually you could still move if you were this kind of high - because you had to be. You can't ever remember being this drunk in your life, enough that your body was being moved and opposed like a doll almost.

 

It was a dull sensation, but you felt it anyway - all you could hear was the low music from the speakers downstairs - what was that? Some outdated 3Oh!3 song, or something? You decided to pay a hyper focus on the things you could feel, sense and control, hearing all kinds of sounds. 

 

You were able to wrench your eyes open, and caught sight of a digital alarm clock that read 3:30AM in blurred neon-green.

 

A pain reverberated through you but you couldn't pinpoint from where, just that it was somewhere bellow the neck, but you couldn't move your head on your own, or do anything - and the overwhelming urge to give into that tunnel-blackness rose, rose and rose like it might eclipse you entirely, like a neutron star.

 

_**NO!**...No....no....no.... st ay.... a wak...e....._

 

_Say something. Lift tongue. Speak. Open mouth. Open... scream... say..._

 

_H e lp...._

 

You blacked out.

 

_Scared._

 

You felt aware for a brief moment, feeling more pain reverberating through your body.

 

_Oh, God - am I dying...? I feel like I'm dying..._

 

When you opened your eyes, the clock read 6:00AM.

 

_I want to die._

 

 

* * *

 

 

You tasted vomit in your teeth when you woke up, and saw some of it in your hair, and on the pillow of the wine red bed sheet you were laying on. With a frown, you glanced around the room and saw a girl curled up on the floor that you vaguely recognised as one of the beer-pong girls, but not much else, just a pain aching through your entire body, and a hangover that felt like it was being personally hammered into your skull by Thor's hammer itself. You closed your eyes and let out a low groan, feeling your ankles weigh heavily with the weight of your high heels as you dangled them off the side of the bed.

 

Here is something that nobody tells you about blacking out - there is something more terrifying that the slew of drunken texts you send to your ex, your best friend and pictures you put online. There's something a lot worse than the people you groped, the mistakes you made, the stories you told, and the absolute fool you'd made of yourself.

 

That answer, quite simply, is missing time. 

 

There is nothing more terrifying than the concept of missing time, a period of your life that is absolutely unaccounted for and you don't know how you can ever begin to claim it back, or even if you ever can. Oh yes, that's not just something from movies and books and popular TV shows, losing time really did happen, it just seldom ever happened to you. You'd gotten drunk before, and you hadn't taken any pills that night which would have accounted for your blackout, and never once had you missed time, and your body told you it was wrong.

 

Your body told you everything in the whole wide world was just wrong, it was wrong when you walked, it was wrong when your thighs pressed against each other, it was wrong when your gut curled in pain. Everything was just wrong.

 

You spoke to nobody as you left, not looking for anybody you came with, you silently staggered to Unilocks, not caring that it was a walk of shame from the state you were in, The most you'd done was wipe the vomit out of your hair when you got to your dorm, and simply fell into your bed.

 

Blindly groping around your bra, you found your phone, and saw that it was on low battery - but that Lorelai had sent a message that she was leaving the party, and you simply hadn't seen it, or you would have left with her - and you don't know why that was the catalyst, but you let out a strangled breath, like you might cry.

 

You sat upright, and slowly took your underwear off, closing your eyes and counting to ten, before violently throwing it in the bin, and collapsing on your bed.

 

You cried.

 

* * *

 

 

Monday morning rolled around and you called in sick everywhere - you emailed your lecturers, you emailed your workplace, and you took off the next few days, feeling a paranoia begin to settle over you. Missing time. Missing time. Missing time. You spent those days trying to contact Trevor, but he didn't respond. Not once.

 

After that adorable game of "Gets!" - he hadn't bothered to contact you since. Typical.

 

Lorelai knew something was wrong, but you spent most of your time swallowing your prescriptions so that you could sleep through most of the next few days that followed, you couldn't cope with the thoughts going through your mind at the time and especially not be able to focus on your schoolwork. 

 

Lizzie came over with class notes, and instantly knew something was wrong when she saw you.

 

"She's been that way since the party, hasn't spoke a word since, I tried talking to Trevor but he's avoiding me, I think they split up," was all Lorelai said, you would have scoffed if you had the strength - you didn't even think you were fully going out, you had been in that weird, nebulous, middling ground, but admittedly - it had felt like it, after you'd played "Gets!" that night.

 

It's why his radio silence hurt even more.

 

"Hey," Lizzie said quietly, stroking some of the hair out of your eyes and mouth as you continued to lay on top of your sheet, still in the dress - making her frown and sniff around you - you could do with a shower, she mused. And badly - you smelled of sweat and vomit, even if it wasn't overpowering, it'd get there if left unchecked.

 

"She hasn't been eating anything either, I bring her stuff from the cafeteria and she doesn't touch it, I even got her, her fave from McDonalds and it just kinda sat there, I ended up having to eat it," said Lorelai with a roll of her eyes - before turning to leave and head for her own class.

 

"See if you can get her in the shower, will you? She needs to get out of this funk, there's better guys than Trevor anyway."

 

You didn't hate Lorelai, she had a strange, misplaced trust that the world was a kind and good place, and didn't often think of the potential dangers it held, it showed in how she conducted herself. You could not hate the attitude she had towards you - you had shut down like Fort Knox - you wouldn't blame her if she was pissed off at your unresponsive attitude. You didn't bother doing anything but stare at your phone screen, letting the brightness hurt your eyelids as you waited for any response from Trevor.

 

Lizzie found it rather pathetic, to be honest, and all but forced you up, unzipping the back of your dress with a force and tossing you a long-sleeved shirt and some of your jeans, and your bath robe - she was going to force you into those disgusting communal showers, with all the insistence her airy nature could muster. It was her strange, soft touch and how she spoke softly, but sternly to you that had you moving, even if it felt like you were on autopilot, letting yourself get moved from point A to point B, like some horrible, static dummy.

 

"Come on, are you going to let a man just treat you like that? We should go and find him, and you should get your answers yourself, you've never struck me as a lady who sits and feels sorry for them self," said Lizzie, and it was at least, enough to get you moving, even if you didn't feel like going to class with the nauseating amount of people, with Lizzie at your side, you could at least brave Trevor.

 

You didn't even think about that stupid threat letter, it felt so small and inconsequential now, everything did - you just lost perspective. Everything felt fucked. When Lizzie saw you come out of the shower, she saw your skin was red in places, and sore from aggressive treatment with a loofah, like you might have even peeled off some layers if it were possible to sand it down. She frowned, and helped pat your hair dry with a towel, before blow-drying it in relative silence, watching as you stood there numbly.

 

Oh yeah, Trevor had a lot to answer for, Lizzie decided - which is why she was dragging you by the arm to the Sports Hub's main gymnasium, following the sound of squeaking trainers against lacquered wood until she laid eyes on the varsity football team. Instantly, you felt on edge, but found yourself violently stomping it down, raising your chin up and walking across the bleachers with Lizzie in silence, feeling eyes straying over you.

 

_Since when have you ever been scared of anything?_

 

Lizzie felt you flinch at the hoots you got as you entered, they were playful, and not at all malicious, but you flinched all the same. Your jaw clenched, and you strode with a bit more purpose. You were clean, and you had Lizzie with you, and the coach was standing right over there, and you feared very few things, you told yourself - forcing your tight muscles to relax as you took a seat in and waited for them to finish. 

 

If Coach Negan was honest, it took him a moment to recognise you, you were not only a far cry from the prim, cleaned-up Mort Sci nerd he'd met on the pitch at the first game, and a world apart from the creature which he'd heard been referred to quite casually as  _"Sex on legs when she wears them little dresses," -_ and after collecting you from The Roach, he was hard pressed to disagree - right now, you looked like some wretched cross between the two. Your hair was loose, which he found he preferred on you, but had been washed and left to flow freely and fluffily down your lab-coat - but it looked like you were honestly trying to hide in it, constantly hunching over and your jeans even swallowed your battered trainers, dragging across the gym floor.

 

He wouldn't say it was ugly, but you were definitely a mess, especially compared to how tidily he knew for a fact that you brushed up. If he had to guess, it looked like you had a long night, but it was clearly some college student drama. Trevor Matthews had a foul mood for days, one day he skipped practice all together, and when he came in, he had a swollen-eye that was so bad that his eye had only just healed enough that he could stare out of it. He told everybody that he had an accident in the fitness room, but he refused to elaborate on it, and just uttered that it was cringeworthy, and dropped it.

 

It was fairly obvious he'd been fighting, but didn't want the faculty to pick up on it, so they let it go - he was, after all, a star player.

 

When he blew the whistle to call time, he noticed Trevor catch sight of you and Lizzie, and make a beeline for the locker room, only for you to jump the stand with Lizzie.

 

_Answers. You fucking deserved answers._

 

"Trevor Matthews don't you  _dare_ walk away from me!"

 

What followed was a silly chorus of "ooohs," and "you're in troubles," from his teammates, and when you caught sight of his eye, you frowned - but kept the question of what happened swallowed for last, because that was the last answer you wanted. You wanted to know why he'd gone radio silence on you after promising not to, you wanted to know what happened at the party, you wanted to know what you two were.

 

The answer he gave you was devastatingly embarrassing to have echoed over the gymnasium, and your face flushed a dark shade as your brows drew into a fierce scowl and Lizzie felt herself getting angry.

 

"Get off my dick wouldya? You were my Freshman Fling, now go away, Jesus - I thought you got the message,"

 

And that was when the penny dropped, and you felt the wild stab of pain in your gut, but ignored it - hearing Lizzie hiss in your ear about letting him talk to you like that as some of his friends jeered, but a good few of the teammates actually didn't, because, funnily enough, they were rather human - far more human than Trevor was being at that moment, and Negan noticed frowns and odd glances being exchanged between them. Those that were jeering were very far and few, he was pleased to say, and he wondered how much he'd let them exchange before he acted as a staff member and cut the scene happening in front of him.

 

You swallowed your hurt, and your disgust, keeping your chin up for the sake of your pride.

 

"The dick weren't even that good so step off, I _need_ to talk to you about the party," you bit out, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice, and hoping that it was working, because your cheeks were flaming in embarrassment. Trevor pulled a face that you struggled to define, his non-bruised eye widened - before he drew his expression into a frown and turned away from you as you and Lizzie advanced on him angrily - Lizzie seemed more furious than you to be honest.

 

"Yeah well, I don't wanna talk to you anymore, got it? Just - just leave me alone, and delete my fucking number," he growled, he didn't even seem to care how much of an ass it made him look, turning and heading for the men's showers with a sort of purpose that had him pushing one of his more silent teammates away.

 

One of them did actually yell after Trevor.

 

"Hey, Trev! Bit fuckin' harsh bro! She's just a freshman!"

 

"Lighten up! Dude! Where ya goin?"

 

 

As soon as it was uttered, there was a small chorus of agreement and you found yourself feeling marginally less ashamed to be standing in the gymnasium, feeling like you had egg on your face, because this moment reminded you that you were not in high school anymore, where perhaps everyone would have laughed at you, not knowing what else to do, but there was a more human response than even you'd have expected, especially from a sport's team with brotherly camaraderie. You stood there feeling fucking stupid for God knows how long, seeing one of the taller boys - Roy - come up to you and apologise, saying that Trevor had a stick up his ass for, quote "Days," - but that you shouldn't have hard feelings.

 

"You can do better, anyway," he said, but you just violently shrugged his arm off, swallowing thickly.

 

"I need to talk to somebody who was at the party on Saturday, I needed to talk to Trevor about it, but, I guess that's not going to happen, so, I apologise for disrupting your break," you said quietly, but your voice carried. It was a pained sort of monotone that had a frightful sort of meekness, hearing it made Roy feel bad, and he probably wasn't the only one, but he could feel he probably had nothing in his head that would wipe that look off your face, so he didn't try. 

 

Coach Negan frowned - and walked into the centre of the gymnasium, bringing everyone to an absolute silence with his mere, towering presence - still in slight shock Trevor Matthews, the weedy looking prick - would actually walk out on a practice, but that something was going down and he had to act like staff and intervene.

 

"Alright, alright, soap opera's over boys, get to the fucking locker room and if any of you see Trevor Matthews later, tell him his ass reports to me or I'll have to hunt him down - I don't have people walk out of my fucking practices unless they're injured or dying," he barked - and just like that, he was resetting the atmosphere, almost normalising it.

 

You felt oddly grateful.

 

"-All of you, just go! Clearly you're just gonna stand about gossiping like girls and playing with your pussies instead of actually do some fucking sports, so just pack up! Go on!" he snarled, keeping his eyes away from you and Lizzie and effectively ordering all of his team out of the centre of the gymnasium to go to the men's locker room, until it was just you, Lizzie Samuels - and Coach Negan.

 

_Fucking called it - knew Trevor was gonna do it, he ain't a commitment boy. Knew it._

 

 He stood and bared down on the pair of you, noting how Lizzie had taken a protective arm-link to you, and you stood like she was somehow holding you up with her own, thin little body. The closer Negan got, the more he could tell that your eyes were in fact swollen, and while they weren't bloodshot, it didn't take a genius to figure out you'd probably been upset for a very long time, because your eyes looked worse than usual. That drawn out tiredness that he associated with the Mort Sci student who clearly worked too hard now seemed more pronounced, and he didn't know how to sum it up.

 

It was like you had your own personal storm cloud, if he was honest. 

 

"Mind tellin' me what the fuck that was about?" he said, though this time he wasn't shouting, and it sounded almost like he was trying to be gentle, even with the strong current of agitation in his voice. "-I don't usually have domestics come barrelling into my fuckin' practices,"

 

You winced, and mumbled out an apology, feeling Lizzie squeeze your arm in comfort - as she found herself quailing slightly under Coach Negan's cold, dark, inscrutable gaze. She found him to be a rather scary man.

 

"I just wanted to ask him about something but he's been ignoring me so I thought... I'd ask him to his face, I didn't... I didn't expect him to react the way he did, I'm sorry. I s... I should go," you shuddered out, looking down at the tips of your battered trainers that barely peeked out from your oversized jeans, protectively wrapping the white lab coat around you, despite not going to classes. It just made you feel safe - and warm, so you wore it anyway, also to be in accordance with the uniform preference rule.

 

"Yeah, he's been kind of...off, and majorly off his game, know anything about that? The fuckin' eye? I can't really have him fuck up with our VSU match coming up, so if you know something, I'd like it if you told me," now the agitation was getting filtered out, and he seemed to be trying to be gentler.

 

Trying.

 

"You're his coach," you managed, before shrugging helplessly. "If he hasn't told you, than he won't have told his freshman fling," you said as straight-faced as you could manage, missing Lizzie's grimace of disgust as you referred to yourself as that with a blasé sort of monotone, like it was a fact you just swallowed in one and accepted.

 

You closed your eyes and let out a deep sigh, ignoring the flash in your mind from last week when he'd taken you back to campus, and your memory of him handing you his jacket, and how briefly safe you had felt. It was like you were finding reasons to uncork of your feelings and melt down, but you'd be damned if you did that over a man, missing time or not - you were not about to humiliate yourself further, you told yourself.

 

"I really don't feel well, I shouldn't have come. I just thought...he might talk to me in person, but clearly not. Sorry again - for uh, for ruining everything," you muttered, only for him to scoff.

 

"They've been playing like shit anyway, you didn't ruin much," that was all he offered in the way of comfort, he could just tell when a practice wasn't going to get back on track, and his team was clearly phoning it in, there was no way it'd go to top performance after this interruption anyway.

 

"Hey," he called out, as you began to turn away with Lizzie after mumbling about leaving because you didn't feel good - and he could believe it, he mused, you looked kind of peaky and like you could drop at any moment. "-Matthews isn't exactly known for being an intellectual fucking titan, he says and does stupid shit all the time, don't take it personal,"

 

You shrugged, and tried to muster a smile, but it came out as a lop-sided and sort of broken face that made your whole face feel odd.

 

"I'm sayin' he's a fucking idiot, seriously, don't go losin' any sleep over it - I'm takin' over Lowes next boxing session while he's sick - I want to see you there," there - that was as nice as Negan got, and you recognised the effort, and just gave another shrug, before heading out of the gymnasium in silence with Lizzie.

 

Coach Negan frowned - he needed to find out what the  _FUCK_ was happening in his own fucking sports team, and fast, ideally before the game with VSU.

 

He had a feeling you were definitely the key to that.

 

 


	6. Disconnection

 

It's hard to stay connected anymore, it feels like everything's fallen apart and nobody but you, and whoever was at that party, knew about it. This ruled out all of the other people doing Mort Sci, and in a way, it was refreshing because it meant by the time you dragged yourself to your classes, it was like another world separate from the one which felt like it had been collapsing. You didn't think about the threatening letter, you didn't even want to work with the John Doe anymore and requested that you no longer shadow it, and instead, would be shadowing Professor Mattius when he was personally attending a body.

 

"The complications of an active case are annoying and I'd rather not be hindered," was your excuse, and it flew - surprisingly. Lizzie stayed on with the John Doe, but it appeared that she wasn't getting any threats, just you - or she disregarded any negativity her way as she always did.

 

Ah, the threat - see, the involvement of campus police and actual police was enough to discourage the idea of reporting what happened at Fi Kappa Sci - because you weren't even sure of what happened. So, if you'd been drugged, or your drinks spiked, how would they track it down? Urine samples are long gone, and yes, your underwear was still thrown away, that might have had recoverable DNA on it, but then what? You're in a police case, and then the university has to keep an eye on you even more than the threat already was making them do so, and you'd be trouble.

 

You had this deep-rooted fear of being too much trouble, and losing your scholarship, you felt like you'd done enough, and you didn't want to be thrust into the centre of an investigation - because fuck, you just know that Shane Walsh will involve himself and it'll be pure hell. You'd seen stuff like this happen back home, to other girls, the court process was a bitch and you had even less trust in the USA, so you simply went on, business as usual, feeling utterly disconnected. You even clocked in some more shifts to make up for how many you missed while you'd been depressed, using the quietness of the laundromat to find some modicum of peace.

 

Your 20th birthday came without fanfare, at least, until you saw Lorelai standing awkwardly inside of the Science Institute, waiting outside your class.

 

In her hands was an oversized "You're 20!" badge, and a balloon. Yes, a fucking balloon - helium and all, which she didn't seem to be embarrassed carrying across campus, which read "Happy Birthday,"

 

It was stupidly sweet of her, you thought - and so you threw your arms around her a little ways from the doorway, taking the badge, fixing it to your lab coat, and holding the balloon, letting her interlink her arm with yours.

 

"I know you don't feel like partying anymore, but I thought you should know - I'm not letting your twentieth just go, and I know I've been kinda crummy when I ditched you at DV8 and didn't find you before the frat party ended so I'm making it up to you! We're going to sit inside, order pizza, and watch _Magic Mike_ on Netflix so we can pause and point at all the cute boy butts until you forget about Trevor," said Lorelai bluntly, making you snort as she walked you out of class. Of course, Lorelai thought all of this was about Trevor Matthews, but you didn't want to correct her, mostly because you were aware she'd keyed Trevor's corvette after finding out his crude word-for-word verbatim remarks that had humiliated you in front of the football team. The last thing you wanted was Lorelai getting into trouble for doing something like destroy the entirety of the Fi Kappa Sci frathouse in a rage.

 

Apparently, she carved the word  _Shitwipe_ across the driver side door, and nobody had been able to prove it was her, you weren't even sure how she pulled it off, but knew better than to ask, you didn't even know how you'd managed to mean so much to her in such a short amount of time that she'd do that for you, but it was quite touching.

 

So was all this, you realised - a small, shy smile on your face. Maybe your first in days, which meant it was working at least a little bit. Lorelai's laptop still worked too, and you'd finally sent yours to get repaired, or rather - given it to Lizzie to go get repaired because you didn't want to leave the campus much, so you watched Netflix huddled up on her bed with her Macbook Air across your laps over the covers. In all honesty you didn't pay much attention to the film, just letting her pause it and giggle at Matthew McConaughey's southerness. 

 

You didn't really get the humour of it, but Lorelai being from Georgia and all - found it plenty amusing and you were admittedly, distracted by the glitz and the glam of the boys. You doubted very much however, that you'd be going out on a date again any time soon, not after what happened. It felt like that with that piece of missing time taken from you, that something important had been taken from you too, and while it wouldn't have been your first experience with an intensely intimate assault, it was the not knowing that was perhaps the worst of it.

 

The not knowing and the utter lack of control and awareness you'd had. It's fair enough doing pills and having that be something you inflict on yourself but when that control is handed unwittingly to someone else, it's suddenly a lot scarier, and you weren't safe like when you were in Lizzie's room. Not safe at all. When Lorelai realised you were paying minimal attention, she ordered you the pizza, with some excited bubbling over what each other's favourite sides and toppings were.

 

Now that's how to bond with someone, over a mutual love of chicken bites and mozzarella sticks.

 

"Lorelai no!" you said sharply - but it was too late, she hit "Send," - after typing in the special instructions -  _Send Your Cutest Delivery Boy._

 

Gah. This girl. Sigh.

 

"C'mon, it's time to lighten up - in fact," she put the laptop to one side, because for what she had in mind, pen and paper seemed a lot more appropriate, reminding her of her high school years. What Lorelai had in mind was definitely something she did in high school, but her idea was to be a little more upbeat, and optimistic - and create a list, and she titled it crudely in looping text ' _Guys Better Than Trevor Matthews'._

 

"We're gonna make a list of all the guys who rank better than Trevor Matthews, and then we're gonna write something nice about them as to why, and every time you feel like moping about what he said and that horrible thing about you being a freshman fling, you can look at the list and know there's way better fish in the sea," she said with a grin.

 

"Lorelai - that's...that's not necessary," you said awkwardly "I doubt I'll date again this century anyway,"

 

"It's nice! And positive! Nobody says you have to date or nothing but you can blow off some steam," said Lorelai insistently, before putting down a name "-look, I'll start."

 

_Roy Thurman - tall and sweet, will be a good person over being popular._

 

"Yeah, he was nice to me after Trevor... y'know," you said after a moment, feeling your lips reluctantly stretch into a smile, taking the pen off of Lorelai to add another name. Not everyone was horrible, you told yourself, and this list will remind you of that in your times of utter despair, and unwillingness to go outside and face the public.

 

_Carl Grimes - Honest and kind, eyes like oceans, bluest you'd ever see._

 

"Ohhhh poetic, I don't think I know him well - is he one of the security course kids? The eyes tipped me off, I might have seen him around," said Lorelai as you nodded. 

 

More names.

 

_Ravinder Singh - hilarious and quirky, loveliest most infectious smile._

 

"You don't hang with him much anymore," Lorelai sighed "-you really should, don't let politics around your major stop you having good friends, you got any more names? I don't think our crossover on people we know is very similar so just, put some names down and describe them to me, ooooh - maybe I'll pull them up on the student database, we can giggle at their profile photos and I can see how cute they are,"

 

You raised a brow at her antics, but decided to humour her, it was the first time you'd smiled and giggled in days so it must be working. You realised you didn't have that many boy names in full, so it might take some googling, but you could give it the good old college try, and despite your mistrust, found yourself putting the PhDs down.

 

_Justin Sharpe - goofy but nice jawline, tall and silly - cute little butt, probably cuddly sort._

 

_Linus Parks - morbid but fascinating, good shoulders, highly intelligent and nice beard._

 

"Can we add staff? I don't know that many boys by full name, and the googling is getting a bit immense," - the suggestion made Lorelai giggle and lean in, because she could better follow the staff names and would probably recognise who they were with minimal database combing.

 

"Naughty minx," Lorelai teased "-Go for it!"

 

_Rupert Mattius - very kind, cute smile, nice hair, very fatherly and maybe the most perfect teacher EVER._

 

Eichmann wasn't going on the list, you still didn't know how to feel about his autopsy report editing, so you kept his name omitted, just as he'd omitted certain facts - the next name you added, well, that made Lorelai bristle in surprise, as she didn't know anyone who had much of a nice thing to say about the next male on the list. 

 

_Coach Negan - Coolest teacher, reliable, blunt and honest_

 

You mused that you had to put a physical attribute too, as you'd done with the others, and mulled it over.

 

_Coach Negan - Coolest teacher, reliable, blunt and honest with the hottest body in his age range._

 

You paused, before scribbling in an extra word.

 

_Kind._

 

"Seriously? He pretty much frogmarched you off the pitch and you're putting down kind?" said Lorelai skeptically, leading you to embarrassingly confess as to how you managed to find your way home after the events of DV8. You watched as her expressions morphed from curious, to relieved, and then settling again on disbelief. You finally told her what happened with Shane too, she just knew that it went badly, but not how badly - and was suitably annoyed when she found out what happened. It felt like your bad luck just didn't end, to a point where she contemplated setting you up with one of her cousins, which you promptly shot down.

 

"No dating, I'm on dating hiatus," you said shortly, before defending your choice of boys on the list. "-Anyway, coach should stay on the list even if you think he's kinda mean, I mean, how many people do you know who actually share a McNugget sharebox?" 

 

"Okay, fine, I see your point," Lorelai giggled "-it's just - I mean I peg him around forty so that makes him twice your age, you could probably put 'DILF' on there or something?"

 

You gave her a blank look - only for her to explain.

 

"Dad-I'd-Like-To-F--"  she trailed off at the deadpan expression, before coughing awkwardly and changing her choice of word "-Facebook."

 

"He doesn't have a wedding ring and I'm pretty sure he doesn't have kids from how late he was getting back - and he only grabbed food enough for one," you recalled, causing Lorelai to give you an appreciative look, honestly even if you weren't intending to be, you were very observant, and - she mused - would probably make for a good detective or something.  "-so he's probably not a dad, so, no DILF - cross that out." Lorelai sighed and crossed it out with the pen, though it was still clearly legible, the list was now at least, factually correct.

 

"Anyways lets not cross into creepy territory - that's me telling you not to Facebook stalk - I have him for boxing while Lowes is off on sick leave," you said shortly.

 

"You mean you're actually going to go out for something other than classes? Huzzah!" she replied, grabbing you into a one-armed hug. leaning her face into your shoulder. She'd been trying awfully hard to get you out of your funk and it had taken a fair bit of unresponsiveness before she handed you over to Lizzie, it came as some relief that you were going to be engaging with the world again. 

 

It's really not her fault, you thought. Lorelai just really didn't know what was going on with you and you would make sure that it stays that way, the last thing you need is for her to get scared or be scared on your behalf. You were a big girl, a strong girl, from the back roads of Cheshire's worst slum, you could handle this. You could handle most of what the world threw at you, petty threats, the incident at the frat party - none of those things were a scratch on the worst things that had happened to you, the things that pushed you to work so hard you could leave that place in your dust.

 

You looked over at the textbook which held your copy of the threatening letter, and felt the previous anxiety fade away.

 

Now? Now you were just kind of pissed off. In truth, you cycled through feeling amazingly upset and depression, to cynicism, and then eventual anger - it was like the stages of grief, you supposed. There was nothing that was going to fill the gaping void, and medication sort of plastered over it, all that there was left to do was deal with the resulting maelstrom.

 

Watching Lorelai flirt with the cute Asian pizza delivery boy, you wished for a moment that you could be as carefree.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lizzie came over at the end of the evening, apparently she'd been waiting on something to be delivered so she could give you a birthday present of her own making, it wasn't much, but she considered you her only real friend and so went out of her way to get you something, even if it was small. You'd never had somebody hand-make you something before, and felt yourself blushing from head to toe at the small gift - it was a simple black cord necklace with a golden sort of cage dangling off of it, holding a black, smooth, tumbled rock which you were told was onyx, harking back to your old conversation.

 

Lizzie seemed like the sort that would make her own jewellery, but this was still very personal, and you didn't take it off for anything. Trevor still avoided you like the plague, but, you noticed - more of the sports team seemed to be smiling or acknowledging you as you flit across campus, in some strange guilty gesture perhaps? Maybe they felt somehow jointly responsible for Trevor being an ass, you didn't know, but it was nice to be acknowledged. It didn't do much to abate your paranoia though, it's not like you had a complete guest list for everybody at the Fi Kappa Sci party, so in the back of your mind, you had to be wondering who all was there and who could have known what happened to you.

 

You even found the girl who'd passed out in your room at the frat house, but she'd been blacked out and asleep half-under the bed the entire time, and told you rather honestly that she knew nothing, and you believed her. Fuck.

 

Wait.

 

Maybe you  _did_ have a guest list - Facebook! There was an event made for it, and people checked in and said if they were going, not going, or interested. You spent all of your evening on your phone, screenshotting and searching, combing everywhere for something - some memory jog, or someone to have said something about you.

 

Nothing, just a picture of you and Trevor smiling together, which you promptly untagged yourself from. Your amateur investigating, while smart, didn't seem to be yielding much, and you'd asked for any follow-up on your threat and found absolutely fucking none.

 

It was like the world stopped turning for you, but kept going for everybody else, and that wasn't fair. Mattius noticed a certain level of disconnect with you too, even if he couldn't call it out academically, he noticed it, and he wasn't the only one. You'd changed in a tangible way that was hard to describe. Something wasn't the same. It wasn't fair that everybody else got to be normal and happy and here you were, miserable, alone and fighting the urge to be scared. It was why your body, though perpetually tired, was aggressive in its movements.

 

You tore through the timer you had at boxing, leaving the punching bag swinging violently as you wiped at the sweat on your head with the back of your arm. You stood there, wearing a sports bra and some yoga pants, not usually the most appropriate thing, but for athletics? More than enough, and now Coach Negan at least understood why Lowes was rather happy to be the head of a women's sport which he was of the opinion that slim to no people actually cared about. Some others were just in shirts and sweatpants, but after seeing the rather pushy level of violence you were exerting, continuing even through short five minute cardio breaks, it was fairly obvious why you were scantly dressed.

 

"Pretending it's Trevor?" said Coach Negan dryly when you finally took a break, throwing the gloves off and leaning against the gymnasium wall as the women began to pack away. It was hard not to notice the excessive anger stored up in your small little body, honestly, he expected you to be a lot more delicate, especially as the last time he saw you, he thought that you might cry on the spot after what Trevor had said. You looked at him, chest heaving and ponytail feeling like it was weighted with sweat - not the most attractive look, but damn, if you went into women's amateur boxing he wouldn't have wanted to have been the lady on the receiving end of whatever he had just witnessed.

 

"Catching up, stress fractures slowed me down a while," you said amiably. You didn't really want to discuss the Trevor thing, it still filled you with embarrassment whenever you thought about it, and so you didn't go and walk in on the team anymore and changed your laundry drop-off times so you had less chance of interacting with them - Negan noticed, but didn't call you on it. It's not like you were inconveniencing him, and he didn't even really blame you, he just supposed you were still rather mortified.

 

"If it's any consolation, some of the team have frozen him out, because we're not in fucking high school anymore where that shit flies," he said, but only when the women had filed out, and it was just you two standing in the gymnasium. You offered to help him pack the boxing pads and gloves away, being that you had nothing left to do. You wondered if Coach Negan really was as mean as everybody said that he was, or if it was just something relegated to how he coached, because with you - he'd been nothing but a cool guy, and right now, it kind of sounded like he was comforting you.

 

"I'm over it," you said with a shrug. "I have bigger problems, the world won't stop turning because some frat boy doesn't like me," _like a John Doe I got threatened over, missing time, weird lesbian vibes with my spacey friend....yup..._

 

"Good attitude," said Coach Negan, raising a brow at you - after all the anger he'd seen you express, it didn't really seem like you were as casual as your words made you sound like you were. "-but you punch like you got a chip on your fuckin' shoulder,"

 

In keeping with the strange bantering relationship you had come to develop with the difficult man, you responded, trying to keep it light.

 

"You got a degree in Psychology that I don't know about? I didn't think you could tell that from a punch," you said, scooping up the piles of sweaty gloves and putting them into a white box and then picking it up in one clean move, trailing after the large man as he led you to the storage closets.

 

"You just seem pissed the fuck off," he replied, and you watched as he lifted the box with tremendous ease, almost without thinking about it - and stacked it high above your head, high enough that if anybody asked you to go and get it from this closet that you probably wouldn't be able to manage with a footstool. You wondered why he was asking, and then reasoned that maybe he felt responsible for your public embarrassment, and you had established a friendlier relationship after the incident at the dive bar? Perhaps he was just curious and trying to fill the silence, or maybe he wasn't completely awful.

 

Maybe he was just not-awful to you, and what would be the harm in letting off just a little bit of steam? It's not like you told Lorelai, and you kept as much detail from Lizzie as you could when you found out she had no threats levied against her, and that just left you and all your dirty little secrets. There wouldn't be much in harm in telling him what the university was already aware of, he was after all - staff, and Coach Negan had given you nothing but good advice in the past. He was safer to talk to than Lorelai in that respect.

 

Yeah...maybe it wouldn't hurt to tell him that bit, and somehow, just looking at his massive stature and how he didn't give much of a damn that you were a Mort Sci major, you felt like he wouldn't be intimidated by anything you had to tell him, and that helped.

 

"I guess it wouldn't hurt nothing to tell you, 's not like the university doesn't already know," you mumbled.

 

You glanced outside the storage room, as though checking for some errant student, before backing into the shelf and leaning against it slightly, the coach gave you a curious look, pulling a sweat towel off of his shoulder and handing it to you, before mimicking your body language, only he was folding his large, muscular arms over his chest and looking down at you with that inscrutable, cold gaze of his that made most of his players quail with little work. It suddenly felt like you were sealed into a private, intimate sort of space that was exclusively the coach's domain, like when you'd been poured into his car during your drunken outing.

 

It felt safe, you realised, even with the awkward, short distance between your bodies and you craning your head to look up at him.

 

"So," you cleared your throat, glancing away from the intensity of his gaze, he was a little much - you thought. "-I'll make no bones about it, I'm brilliant at what I do, because I work hard. Always have. Maybe a little too much, I'm uh - shit, I should start from the top, you're not Mort Sci so you won't know," you grimaced. Great, you were already bungling it up, but the coach was surprisingly patient, his smooth baritone washing over you.

 

"From the top then," you had piqued his curiosity, both with your words and overly secretive body language - and the half-shutting of the door. You left it ajar, because then it really would be a closed space, and somehow that didn't seem very appropriate to you, and you didn't want to make him uncomfortable. How you started with it, with a surprising lack of humbleness, just frankness, gave Coach Negan absolutely no vague hint as to where you were going, Not a one. He couldn't have even guessed it with all the time in the world.

 

"Me and my friend Lizzie - who you met. We're in the top 5% of performers for Mortuary Science, and there's thing - called an intern list. Like, lackeys for the PhDs so they feel like they're important and not just puppets for the heads of the Mortuary Science modules - they run this...amazing Masters program. I won't bore you with the details, but by chance I... ended up shadowing this autopsy because I was on that list," you said, chewing on your lip, and checking him periodically for a disturbed expression.

 

You were pleased when you were met with none.

 

"And it's a body that's in an active case, because VMA has the best labs and forensics department in the entire state, so, sometimes Virginia PD send us bodies and sometimes Mort Sci students get to deal with them - w-well, there was this guy, and, he died. He died really bad, I don't wanna gross you out," you said hesitantly, only to see the man was utterly captured, hanging off your every word with an almost tangible intrigue.

 

"Don't worry, you'd be hard pressed to fuckin' gross me out, keep goin' - you got me curious," said Coach Negan, bemused as to where this was headed. He expected something Trevor related, so this was out of left field.

 

"Right well," you continued awkwardly, looking up at him shyly through your eyelashes. "It was a homicide, blunt force trauma - nails taken out, and no jaw, because we can match ID to dental records and there wasn't anything we could run blood samples against because some people are totally clean and don't come up on any database. No dental work, no hospital trips, no parking tickets even - shit like that, so we have this horrible....horribly murdered John Doe. We probably wouldn't get an ID on him any time soon but - I notice something a bit quick about our Pathology guy - one of the PhDs, so I ...stupidly, fucking stupidly - I just... " you cringed, and fought the urge to turn away.

 

"I had a little poke around because I thought Justin missed something and I found undigested brain in his digestive tract, and I got some shit for even doing it - I'm supposed to be shadowing and not doing anything unless watched. Head of department is impressed but Dr Eichmann whose managing the autopsy about has a crap attack over it, and it's um, it's human brain,"

 

Coach Negan was thrown for a loop and that, and gave you a look of almost disbelief, and searched you for some telltale that this was a dark joke, but saw nothing but complete seriousness on your face, and noted that your tone was low, deep and hushed, like you were truly scared of telling the story out loud.

 

"Fucking hell, that's a bit much to lay on a first year," was all Coach Negan could really say, because shit, it was.

 

"That's not the worst part. It pissed someone off, I don't - I don't know who Coach, I don't. But the body is in an active murder case and somebody didn't want me finding what was in the John Doe's stomach, I got a threatening letter slid under my dorm room last week. Nobody caught who left it or who entered the building, and I haven't told my roommate because I don't want to scare her, but it said if I go near the John Doe again, I'll wish I was on the autopsy table," you murmured bitterly. "I informed campus police, who got the real police, and the original letter is with Detective Inspector Cortez whose on the murder case, but no prints came up. Nobody knows anything. I requested to shadow a different body and that's been that, but it's kind of hard to just keep going on like normal when nothing is normal,"

 

You looked down at your feet.

 

_Missing time - tell him about the missing time. Tell him everything, you've already started, why stop?_

 

"It's not even close to normal," you mumbled "-the university knows, but what can they do? Nothing, really. So that's where we're at, and...."

 

_Scopolomine in his eyes, Eichmann sent an omitted report, someone drugged you at the party. Tell him. Talk to him. Tell him. He's safe._

 

"And I wish that's all that was wrong," was all you managed.

 

Coach Negan was quiet, before letting out a deep, low, appreciative whistle, shaking his head and sighing.

 

"I'll say it first, campus police are kinda shitty, I mean, they're basically worse than mall police, and I don't know how you get much worse than that, so I wouldn't blame you if you hardly feel fucking protected or fucking safe, I mean, they don't really inspire it do they?" Coach Negan snorted, he'd seen the doughy campus policemen mulling around and he couldn't say he was very impressed. You let out a weak, reluctant and almost forced little laugh, because he wasn't wrong, but at least he didn't react like you were some sort of freak or something.

 

"Fucking hell, you're having a really shitty time of it, aren't you?" Coach Negan mused aloud, making you shrug helplessly. 

 

"Any advice?" you laughed humorlessly "-you've been pretty good for it, so I thought there wasn't much harm in telling you, since you asked."

 

Hm. Advice, now he kind of felt out of his depth a little, he was good for the other stuff you asked him, but this was a bit of a different, unusual scenario. You definitely were testing him, whether you knew it or not.

 

"Well, I didn't expect it to be that shit, but if you're getting threatened, you should probably tell your roommate, and try not to travel alone and keep the cops on speed dial. I don't know if the rules are different for you, being an international and all, but you should look into a bit more self-defence stuff, mace, pepper-spray, a fuckin' taser if they'll allow it, the Student Wellbeing Officer probably could tell you," he shrugged, brows drawn into a frown. This must be scary for you, so far from home and getting threats, and then the Trevor thing too?

 

Some part of him was feeling a little bad for you.

 

"Your boxing is on-fucking-point though, I wouldn't want to be the asshole on the other end of your fist, if today was much to go by, so you have a good start," he did his best for what he thought might be a comforting smile, but saw you glance away, an awkward red rising on your features, before he zeroed in on the very last thing you said, just as you motioned to close the conversation and leave the confined space.

 

"Before you go," he said, watching you wipe the sweat off your neck and play with the ends of the sweat towel idly, trying to smother the visible anxiety that he could detect rising inside of you from your mannerisms alone. "-shit, it's probably your last concern if you got all this shit going on, but I have to ask, because it's my fucking team - and we have a match against VSU soon, do you know anything at all about what's going on? Trevor won't say a damn thing to anybody and if he doesn't pick up his shit, he's more of a liability than a team player and I don't want to have to make that cut and replace him with a back-bencher," said Coach Negan with a frown.

 

Something inside him, perhaps an outside subconscious sign or just some gut intuition he didn't know he had told him to take a gentler tone, especially as he saw the frailty in your sweat-soaked form for what it was, and he finally felt like he understood some of the anger he saw today. You were small, lost, in a foreign land, backed into a corner and fucking  _threatened._

 

He took a gentler approach, how one might be when they don't want to scare a deer, even if with the strength you displayed today, some may see you as anything but. He detected the strangled, smothered fright in your voice for what it truly was.

 

"I prefer to resolve things....in-fuckin'-house, before it becomes a problem for the administration," he gave you that severe look, like he was boring into your soul with a frightening amount of ease. "So what I'm saying is, if there's anything you want to tell me, you can tell me and trust me with it. I think we know I can keep secrets," he smiled, referencing the incident in The Roach.

 

You didn't smile back, instead, it seemed like the invisible burden on your shoulders got heavier and you slumped slightly, staring at your beaten up trainers like a child that was being grilled to tell the truth, even though he was doing anything but actually grill you.

 

"Let me make this easier, if I fuckin' can - and tell you what I do know, and you can fill in the blanks," he continued, making you frown at your shoes, but not look up.

 

"You went out with Trevor Matthews, I heard something about a party - not my business - but a frat one, I'm guessing, since he's Fi Kappa Sci, I think?"

 

"Yeah," you mumbled, which seemed to encourage him further as he knew he still had your attention, even if it was seeming reluctant now, as you'd wanted to end the conversation five minutes ago after your impromptu little omission-heavy confessional that kept mentally goading you to reveal more and more as if it could possibly fucking halve the burden on your mind. As if it could destroy you any less and somehow make things better. Logically, you knew it'd just complicate things, and you were expending all of your mental energy just trying to keep yourself quiet, for simplicity's sake. You didn't need more police in your life.

 

"And then one day he misses practice, comes back with a black-eye, and then... is pretty fuckin' disgusting to you when you go to talk to him about that party, right? I picked up about that much, so, what's missing?" said Coach Negan bluntly.

 

_Missing time, Coach. I'm missing time and I don't know what to do but if you keep asking me I'm going to fucking cry and I'm going to unravel so please...please stop..._

 

"I don't know," you shuddered out, trying to ignore the thoughts. "I honestly don't know and there's no way of me ever knowing and if Trevor doesn't talk to anybody, including you - who could kick him off the only thing he cares about, then I don't know what to tell you. I don't know what happened because I don't remember," 

 

Fuck.

 

The instant the words left your lips, your eyes widened, as though your brain caught up late and you realised you said too much, causing the large man to frown. He was incredibly smart, and he didn't miss a beat, like a dog with a bone, he sank his teeth into the sliver of information, giving you that piercing look as you contemplated hiding in the sweat towel like a child.

 

"I got drunk and I blacked out and I don't know what happened but after Trevor hated me and someone punched him I guess? I don't know so I should just probably leave and shower now," you gasped out, all in one breath and about to high tail it out of the door, only to be silenced mid-stride by the tremendously large hand of the coach landing on your shoulder and sports bra strap.

 

"Hey," he called out. "-There's no shame in that, it's college, fuckin' unwind, I'm not judging you for that, I didn't at The Roach, did I?"

 

_He doesn't know, he has no idea what this is really about._

 

You stood mutely on the spot, and you split your lip from how hard you chewed on it, and that's when Coach Negan could detect something was well and truly off. You turned around and jerked your arm out of his grip in an oddly cold gesture that had him scowling, and somehow managed to gather enough of your wits to try to straighten your emotions out before you uncorked them all and ended up unloading on the worst possible person. Even if he had been good to you and had solid advice, it didn't mean he magically stopped being faculty, and you'd told him enough, more than enough - even if he swore to keep whatever you told him a secret for some reason, what if he started pitying you? That would really stick in your fucking craw, because you actually didn't mind the guy, but you'd be pretty annoyed if he started pitying you and treating you like anything less than adult because you were victimised.

 

_Pull yourself together, girl._

 

"I know, I know. It's not that I just...I can't get into this with you, Coach. I mean, you're really cool but I don't think," you swallowed thickly "-I don't think that it would be appropriate, and um, if I told you, I don't know how it works here, but I know how it works at home, and you might be legally obligated to inform someone about what happened at that party. Or shit, maybe the university contacts my emergency contact - and if my mum knew I was struggling out here, it'd break her fucking heart. She thinks it's better here. That I'm doing fine. I'd like her to keep thinking that, because her life - is difficult enough without her knowing I'm struggling too,"

 

Coach Negan's demeanour shifted, and suddenly, he felt a creeping sensation of discomfort inside of himself - he was incredibly smart for the kind of thing he actually did for a living. He could read between the lines, but he pushed it while he still had you talking, still greedily hungering for the knowledge of college drama happening under his nose that was breaking up his sports team.

 

"Hold on shortstop," he said bluntly, though there was no malice in his tone as he looked down. "-Are you telling me that a crime took place at that frat party, and shit, I don't mean the boozing, is that what you're telling me?"

 

You cursed at his smartness, but it was still incredibly vague, so you began backing into the ajar door, ready to bolt for the safety of the all women's showers.

 

"I'm not telling you anything Coach Negan - that's the point, I don't know anything that happened. I was blacked out. I don't know nothing, just - do me a favour. Please don't ask me about this, I don't think I can deal with this right now, I have enough with the John Doe, I can't," you found your breath hiccuping, like you were going to cry, and you stomped down on the urge violently, even if your broken warbles were giving it away quite easily.

 

"I need to go shower before I get late for my... for my thing. Good talk," you said, and before he could respond, you actually broke out into a run - something he didn't expect, enough that you actually left the storage room door swinging dumbly in your wake, and Coach Negan blinking owlishly.

 

 

 _Well_ , he thought -  _Looks like I'm not done with Trevor Matthews then, he can give me answers or get benched. Jesus. A murder, a threat, a blackout at a party and getting dumped, that's a lot to deal with. No wonder she's always alone in the gymnasium, popping pills under the skylight. I'd probably have fucking done that shit if THAT was my college first year._

 

In retrospect, you were probably dealing with more than most adults were, and what was worse was that you were clearly omitting things, which meant the problems he was aware of were probably just the surface of something deeper. To think, this started out as a meaningless little college drama that he passively amused himself with, now, he had the dark feeling in his gut that a crime had genuinely taken place, and what was worse, was that someone - maybe more than one, person in his very own fucking sports team knew about it.

 

And Coach Negan didn't.

 

He knew some of his team were at that party, you did too, but Roy Thurman and the sports team members he'd come with left at about 1AM, few had girls, and the party was absolutely huge, so it's not like you could stamp a guilty label on all of them for your drugging.

 

That's what it was, you came to the conclusion in your heart after forcing yourself to dwell on it. You knew what drugging was and you knew what being drunk was, and feeling both at the same time - you knew that it was easy to convince a drunk mind that perhaps you were just wasted, which is what you'd done as you laid on a bathroom floor in Fi Kappa Sci's frat house.

 

But sober-you knew the difference like night and fucking day. You'd been drugged, pure and simple. You went over it in your mind again, again and again, trying to figure out when in the night it happened. You got most of your own drinks, but you didn't see where they came from after the keg was ran dry. It might have been the tequila, if you thought about it - because the bottles had arrived already open, but if that was the case, wouldn't more girls be asking the same questions you were? You had this niggling, awful sensation, especially after that threatening letter, that you might have been targeted, and some part of you really did hope it was just you.

 

Nobody else deserved to go through this.

 

 _I was drugged -_ you told yourself, letting the cold blitz of water reign down on you from the shower head, at least under a shower you couldn't tell if you were crying or not.  _I was drugged. I was drugged. I was drugged._

 

You mumbled it incoherently under the sounds of feminine chatter, so low that only you could hear it, letting the chill of grim acceptance wash all over you.

 

" _I was drugged."_

 

* * *

 

 

 His tone was low and deadly, he had to get this sorted out before the big game and now Trevor was in a position where he couldn't avoid meeting Coach Negan because it was about his position on the team. Trevor is painfully aware he is probably going to get benched, and he spent the last few days sealing himself away from his friends, putting his mobile into aeroplane mode to avoid socialising and destroyed a few of his friendships through his efforts. He was the least favourite of everybody on the team after how he treated you, even people who didn't know you just thought he was being a royal ass and Trevor didn't blame them.

 

He was, he was a royal ass and he deserved to be kicked off the team.

 

"I'm going to have to fucking bench you, you know that? That weedy prick Ramirez is going to have to fill-in for you unless you clean up this fucking mess. I don't know what's going on, and I don't appreciate being left the fuck out of it then wondering why my goddamn team is falling apart with nothing to show for it, so go on," Coach Negan had him in the hot seat, sitting across from him in the administrative office of the Sports Hub.

 

Anyone else might have shit themselves from the kind of anger that was leaking into Coach Negan's tone, but he saw Trevor slump in the chair - his eye looked better, but it was still fairly obvious he'd been punched and with a closer look he could also see a faded scar on his lip from where it'd been split.

 

What Coach Negan didn't expect, was for Trevor Matthews to start  _crying -_ it'd be different if it had been you, crying in the storage room. You were a girl, and he held you to a different standard, but with Trevor, he found himself being filled with an irrational amount of disgust, it was like watching someone piss their pants, you just wanted to make them stop, force them to clean up and get the hell away from you. He knew that he should probably be softer, and actually use some of that "Safeguarding" bullshit that he was taught on that stupid mandatory teaching course, but Coach Negan was a hard man, and he very rarely went easy on anyone.

 

"What the fuck? Get yourself together Matthews!" he barked, but it only seemed to make it worse.

 

The answer he was given just threw him for a loop.

 

"Please kick me off the team," he choked out, snivelling between each word like he was balking in between them and trying not to burst into ugly sobs, as right now, he was simply crying silently and refusing to look up from his lap. There was something pathetic about a fully grown man crying, even if he was only twenty.

 

"What the fuck....?" Coach Negan breathed, clenching his jaw, and then very suddenly, he slammed his hand down on the oak desk so much that the computer perched on it actually moved slightly. It was enough to frighten Trevor, who flinched visibly, drawing his shoulders all the way up to his ears protectively.

 

"No, no, you don't get out of this shit that easy, you don't fuck up my whole team and our winning mojo then wiggle out of it by crying and getting kicked off. You owe me some fucking answers, Trevor, so spit 'em out. What the fuck's going on?!" he snarled.

 

It wasn't you who broke.

 

It was Trevor Matthews.

 

"I did a bad thing Coach," he croaked "-I did a really bad f-fucking thing," he couldn't bring himself to see Coach Negan's expression of abject disgust, the man was probably inches from slapping him clean across the face until he fell out of the chair. Hell, if college rules allowed him to do it, he'd have done it, just to slap some fucking sense into Trevor or at least give him a fucking reason to be crying like a little bitch. If anyone should have been crying, it was you - you who had, in Coach Negan's opinion, real problems, and you hadn't cried. Seeing Trevor Matthews snivelling in the admin office mere moments after that just seemed trivial and disgustingly pathetic to him, because he was comparing the two of you in his mind.

 

"These two guys - I don't... I don't know who they were but they...fuck, I don't wanna... I get sick thinking about it but it's all I think about. I did a bad thing,"

 

"Fucking - fuck! Get yourself together, I don't speak pussy," he snarled "-Now, tell me what you fucking did that's got you fucking up everything for everyone else," his eyes narrowed "-is this something to do with that party I keep hearing about?"

 

Trevor continued to crumble, nodding overly hard like a broken doll. It disgusted the man, he expected better of his players. He watched as Trevor began wringing out his fingers one by one, clicking some of them out of pure anxiety as he started to cry miserably, like a child being caught mid-crime and forced to answer for it.

 

"I'm in real bad trouble Coach," he cried out "-I let them hurt her, I tried. I really did - I tried to get in the room I tried to stop it!" he gasped out, his chest heaving like his breathing was getting belaboured with pain as he spoke, and that creeping sensation of discomfort started to rise inside of Coach Negan again.

 

"Hurt who? Stop what?" he asked, in the calmest, lowest voice since he began interacting with Trevor at all.

 

"My girl - the freshman, she.. God. Coach, it's so fucked," he cried "-I can't go near her or they'll beat the shit outta me. I didn't mean to hurt her that day in the gym I swear. I don't - I didn't have a choice. I'm trying to keep her safe,"

 

He really wasn't making any sense but the ball of dread was starting to grow in the man's stomach, like something much more sinister than a college breakup had occurred.

 

"Safe from who, Trevor?" he asked in that frighteningly calm voice again.

 

"I don't know their names, but these guys were at the party, and my girl was blacked out. They dragged her into a room and I remember not trusting them because she couldn't move and it didn't take two of them, she's so small Coach. She's funsize, and tiny and has to jump in heels to kiss me," he croaked, like he was still hung up on you, and if Negan had a lesser constitution, he might have even called it a little bit heartbreaking to the ears. "I remember going up the stairs and seeing them shut the door saying they were gonna let her sleep it off, but it didn't feel right. I tried to follow them in, I tried - I tried to break the door, but they broke my nose instead,"

 

He swallowed thickly and audibly.

 

"Bust my lip, blacked my eye, and beat the shit outta me so hard I missed practice," he choked "-and said if I go near her, I'm in for a world of hurt, so I stayed away, and I said all that mean shit. And fuck, I ruined everything, I split the team, I fucking... fuck, I can't even look at her. I should have kept her safe, I tried - I really did... I..."

 

Coach Negan heard enough, and caught himself feeling slightly ill the more he dwelled on the details.

 

"I woke up covered in bruises on the floor and then I went to bed, nobody said they saw anything when I asked so I stopped asking,"

 

When Coach Negan who always-had-something-to-say was suspiciously silent, Trevor warbled out a follow-up nervously.

 

"Coach...?"

 

"I've heard enough," he said resolutely, unnerving the boy. "Firstly, you're off my team, secondly, you're a fucking pussy, third, get out of this fucking office because I'm disgusted with the amount of weakness you've just displayed to me and the team is stronger without it. Y'know, I've heard some real shit today. I heard some real shit in my time," he said, shaking his head in merciless exasperation. He did not mince his words, or spare Trevor's feelings at all. "-but this takes the piss, you know how?"

 

Trevor didn't move or speak a word, he just shivered and wiped his face aggressively with his sleeve.

 

"Overpowered? Fine. Some sick shit goes down? Fine, not your fault. You have a chance to do better and you tuck your tail into your pussy and run the other direction? Not fucking okay. FUCK'S sake Trevor, man the fuck up! You're sitting in front of me and crying like you're the goddamn victim here, when I'm pretty sure the victim is the fucking tiny freshman that you humiliated in my gymnasium!" he snarled, and he enjoyed tearing Trevor down, he had to admit it, but it didn't make his words any less true and it was devastating. 

 

"Fucking hell, I don't have space for this kind of weakness, now get the FUCK out of my office."

 

When Trevor left, Coach Negan reclined in the seldom-used office chair, putting his large, long legs onto the table and letting out a deep, long sigh. At this point, he probably knew more about what happened than you did, but not by much, and suddenly, your earlier remarks made more sense as he put the puzzle pieces together in his mind. 

 

_Legal obligation. Something illegal happened. I don't remember. Don't ask me I can't handle it right now._

 

_Two guys took her into a room. It didn't take two of them._

"This is so fucked," Coach Negan murmured to himself, swivelling slightly in the chair as he thought. What did he do with this information? He sat back and didn't comment before when he could have told you not to waste any time on Trevor at all and then maybe you wouldn't have gone to that frat party at all. He sat back and he wasn't sure if that had been the best decision.

 

 

_She's so small, Coach. She's funsize, and tiny._

 

The pain in his voice didn't leave Coach Negan straight away, something about it bothered him, and you already were dealing with so much - would it even be fair to burden you? If he was the one to do it, instead of Trevor, he was robbing Trevor of a chance to redeem himself, but it seemed that he was a bit too much of a wimp to be able to take care of you anyway. It was an arrogant thought, but an accurate one - he made no bones about it and did not lie to himself. Trevor Matthews failed you, in his eyes.

 

Now he had to ask himself -  _Do I care? And how much do I give a shit exactly?_

 

To even feel like he could tell you, he had to get you to trust him that he wasn't going to blab it to everyone in university faculty and get the police involved, he got the sharp sense from your skirt-around-the-facts language that you didn't want that. Mostly for your mother's sake, if he recalled. The process of getting this information to you was more energy than he usually cared to expend, but he was involved now, and felt like he knew too much.

 

Plus, there was a new problem, dangerous people - potentially students, running around assaulting people, surely as a staff member, this warranted some concern? On one hand, not only would it be a lot of work to reveal this to you, but it would be another horrible thing to burden you with, when perhaps being blacked out was a mercy. On the other hand, he could just keep on going on, especially now he'd booted off the cancer that was growing on his team before the big game with VSU. 

 

_She's a nice girl, she didn't deserve this shit, nobody does. Tell her - it's no skin off your ass and probably would mean a lot if she has some more information. Nobody likes not knowing and she can at least know that Trevor dumping her wasn't actually her fault, that's some good news to take away if I tell her. Or some shit. Fuck._

 

"Goddammit, I thought I was going to have a peaceful week," he groaned to himself, he was going to have to figure out how and when to talk to you, what to say, get you to trust him beyond just thinking he was very, very cool - and see if he could get descriptions of the people in question who dragged you while you were unconscious, he supposed he'd have to do that when Trevor wasn't having a damn mental breakdown (which he was wholly responsible for, not that he gave a shit).

 

He made a snap decision, pulling up your student email from the directory with ease, especially with your name - and the fact that the database had student ID card photos up there with their student emails rather publicly available within the university's unique login portal. It made life for staff easier, and students doing projects with people they didn't know. He didn't stress too much about how he worded it either, as Coach Negan was not the kind of guy who stressed a lot, or cared too much what people thought of him, he'd be just formal enough, and subtle - as all emails could and would get screened sometimes.

 

_Afternoon,_

 

_Excellent boxing, Lowes will be extremely happy to know you're back on form, unfortunately, there's a few more things we need to discuss as a matter of urgency, so find me when you have time to spare - I'll be in the usual places. I'm hard to miss._

_Negan._

 

It sounded nothing like him, and he forced himself to omit several swears, before rolling his eyes, and hitting send. Yeah, that sounded like a boring, but highly appropriate staff email that was entirely related to your performance during boxing, a university-supported official club. Hopefully, you'd read between the lines and come anyway, or take it on face value, arrive as a matter of urgency regarding your current rank in women's boxing. Either would work. He'd make it work. Somehow.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. The R Word

It was rare that Coach Negan ever let himself get stressed over anything, he was generally a proactive sort of guy who managed himself very efficiently. But now he was just a little bit stressed, and he knew that he was because he’d resorted to breaking out a seldom-touched guidebook which he’d had to work through when he became the coach for VMA. It was long, thick and wordy, but it did have an entire chapter dedicated to the safety of the players. It was unfortunate, but it also had a strict set of rules on what to do in the wake of several sports team related scandals from other colleges.

 

 _My team aren’t the ones doing the assaulting you fucks –_ useless! He closed it, and found himself stuck. Police should be involved, two people beating one student and dragging an unconscious student away would be enough for a hypervigilant response. Trevor Matthews was one of his players, so he knew he had some responsibility to deal with the allegations, and report them to the dean, but he found himself rather stuck. He owed it to Trevor, as his coach – but he couldn’t forget what had transpired in the storage room, and there was the matter of his own opinion. His own was that Trevor wasn’t the victim, it was the girl – it was you – but Trevor had been actively threatened, and it was all a hot, steaming mess.

 

He thought about where to do it too, if he did it on college grounds and this came out later, which it could – there could be a fair amount of finger-pointing. He could at least say that meeting with Trevor was about kicking him off the team, but this? And God, what if you started crying? He wasn’t sure he’d know what to do if you did that. Coach Negan had to wonder if he was even the appropriate person to be doing it – he really wasn’t – but Trevor had been told to stay away, the culprits weren’t identified, and you did deserve better than “You were my Freshman Fling, delete my number.”

 

It really should be that pussy, Trevor – but he’d clearly already made his choice when he had the option of talking to you, or hurting you, and picked the latter.

 

Maybe he should do it in a public place, he mused – that’s what people do when they’re breaking up, to stop them causing a scene – but how appropriate is that? Where would he go? Coach Negan already decided he needed to gauge what exactly happened, get you to open up and then decide if he had a legal and/or staff obligation to go through with reporting the incident.

 

Well, of course he knew that he did, but he needed the details before he decided if he kept this under the hood or not. The fact was, you’d told him rather sharply that you didn’t want the police any more involved than they already were, and part of him wanted his life to continue being easy and uninterrupted. A big part of him was thinking about focusing on the game against VSU and continuing as normal, but he couldn’t look at you without thinking of Trevor snivelling in his office, and being reminded that there was still the outstanding issue of students assaulting other students.

 

Coach Negan’s eyes met yours across the cafeteria, and he watched as you turned away from him, taking your food to go. It wasn’t much, he caught sight of a small box which might be all of one thing and what was probably coffee before you flitted out the building as quickly as you’d come. Oh yeah, he knew you were avoiding him, it was obvious when you didn’t turn up to boxing and didn’t bother replying to the email. Clearly you must have read between the lines, and that is why you were avoiding him. You weren’t even hanging out under the skylight, which he knew for a fact that you did whenever he closed-up late and stuck his head in on his way out to see you there.

 

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this in a fucking car park –_ he sighed, catching sight of you heading towards your moped. He gave it a onceover, swinging the keys to his humble 2002 Volvo as he cut across the car park. He watched you climb onto the red and white polkadot seat and drop your books into the basket on the front which had little small blue fake flowers weaved into the gaps.

 

“You’re right, it is a pretty fucking cute ride,” he said, watching as you nearly toppled out of the thing in surprise.

 

“Shit! Hi!” you said, looking up at him in wild-eyed surprise. You hadn’t heard him approach, and for a man of his size, he could move quietly – like a fucking panther. It took your brain a moment to catch up to what he said before you gave him a weak smile, gesturing to the basket and the moped in general.

 

“Yeah, all it’s missing is some tassels on the handles, right?” you chuckled.

 

“It’s…” _dorky as fuck._ “-it is cute,” said Coach Negan resolutely “-a little on the dorky side, but that’s not a bad thing. I’m glad I caught you before you fucked off. We need to talk,”

 

You winced.

 

“Yeah, never in the history of that phrase being uttered has it ever been a good thing,” which is true, it wasn't. It was an ominous sort of phrase and you felt a curdle of dread in you as the coach's form bore down on you, and you wondered briefly just how unforgivable it would be to kick the stand out and just speed away from him. It's not like you could do it forever, though - you'd have to talk to him eventually, and wouldn't you rather be in control of whatever the narrative in his head was? Clearly this was about the storage room talk, so you had to know what he was thinking. What if you woke up to a summons by campus police, or something?

 

"Listen, do you have a minute? I get you've been..."  _avoiding me_ "-busy."

 

You contemplated lying to him, briefly - but what good would it do? Delay the inevitable? Then you cycle right back to the original issue of wondering if you were going to wake up to campus police knocking on your door and asking you about the events of the party at Fi Kappa Sci.

 

"I'm free," you admitted "-I was going to go into town and check out Barnes & Noble, but it can wait,"

 

Yeah, that was something he could picture you doing on your own, you seemed like a Barnes & Noble bookstore kinda girl. He wasn't sure how you were going to find your way but it seemed you braved the unknown quite easily, and noticed a small fixture on your moped which, after some thought, he realised was not big enough for a GPS, but big enough for a phone which, at this point, made for a decent GPS on its own merits. Smart girl, he realised - as you probably jerry-rigged it yourself, and it was a good job too.

 

"I think we should go somewhere, I don't know if it's appropriate to talk here," the moment he said that, he knew that you knew what he was gunning for, and your expression darkened. Ordinarily, it wouldn't be normal for him come up and ask to take you somewhere, but nothing was normal about this, and you didn't feel like walking back onto campus and using his admin office or something. You wanted to keep the events of the party off of the books, so maybe off-campus would be better for that, you mused.

 

"Shit," you cracked, glancing away from him. "-you're persistent,"

 

"I've been called worse," said Coach Negan gruffly "-and I'm a bit backed into a fucking corner here, so we need to talk it out - like adults,"

 

You gave him a long look, before chewing on your lip as he noticed you often did when you were thinking or nervous, or just out of habit - and made a hard decision with your next few words.

 

"Fine, but not here. You lead, I'll follow," you said, gesturing to your moped, you didn't feel like getting in the car with him and having him responsible for getting you back to campus or to fork out for a taxi. You didn't want to be trapped in that little finite space while you talked about something which for the past few weeks, felt like it was gnawing at you, trying to break you slowly. Coach Negan couldn't say he was surprised, there was something strange and intimate about getting in the car with him, it wasn't something he thought about when you were drunk and needed help, but in sober mind and with a disgusting secret about to glue you together, putting you in close quarters felt like it might be suffocating. 

 

"I know a place."

 

It wasn't that you didn't trust him, clearly some part of you did or you never would have disclosed anything to him at all, but clearly you wanted the ability to be able to run away, and Coach Negan was a devastatingly smart man, it only took him all of two minutes to figure it out as he opened his car door. In truth, he knew many places, he just hadn't settled on one which didn't feel weird and out of place to take you, where the hell do you take someone to break news like this? Is anywhere a good place? Coach Negan drove for a bit, catching you in his rear-view mirror and wearing a helmet - good, safety first, but even the helmet's that same shade of red, it's all painfully cute.

 

He stopped at a gas station, he needed to fill up anyway - this was probably the worst spot.

 

"You know how to class it up," was the reply you had for him, only for him to shrug, and say he needed a fill-up. "We're doing this here?"

 

"If you want, but there's a decent smoothie shack not far from here before I realised I was low on gas," he said.

 

Shit, all this fucking build up, a smoothie shack sounded nice but a little too much fun for a conversation that definitely was going to be anything but. Maybe a seedy gas station was just fine.

 

"Here's fine," you said shortly, digging through a large handbag. He noticed you were a handbag-as-a-book bag sort, which meant you were in the trend of having one which was overlarge and a deep, red wine sort of colour and it was big enough to fit a binder in, he was sure.

 

 _Pills too,_ the thought crossed him as he watched you kick the stand out on your moped and park up while he filled his car. You were in that little dress again, the one with the bow that you mentally thought of as rather unsexy, but definitely cute and this time in a thick pair of leggings, and some ankle boots with a small heel. He wondered, briefly, if you were aware of the kind of effect that you had and how you presented - you had to know. Christ, he could see it at The Roach, and again now, watching you bounce your way into the gas station ahead of him. He followed you in shortly after to pay, watching as you leaned over the counter and the pimply teenager stuck serving you was captured the second you opened your mouth. It was a powerful ability to have, and he thought for a moment that if he were you, he'd have the world at his finger-tips, wrapped around his fingers. 

 

That boy-girl charm, if he could do it, he'd be using it constantly. 

 

"Bensons, gold please, love - you do those here, right?"  _yes, captured,_ \- you said 'here' as in 'in America, right?' - he tracked it all with ease, the way the boy's eyes widened, the way his attention turned tunnel vision and if he picked up a goddamn bar of Hersheys and slipped it into his pocket, the damn kid wouldn't even notice.

 

"U-uhm, yeah, let me get those for you - I was starting to think only my old man smoked them," you weren't a regular smoker, it was more of a social thing, but you had the keen feeling that you were probably going to need it and short of going to Lizzie's to enjoy her home-pharmacy skills, you wouldn't get much release otherwise.

 

Pimply kid has a name tag - it reads as Shaun, but you don't call him that. You called him love, and it's the second time he's seen you use a pet-name, not something he'd associate with you. The guy smiled when you said it though, and he throws in the cheap $2 lighter for free but doesn't mention it, he just does it. 

 

Shit, of course you knew - at least on some level, or you wouldn't be doing it, but you probably weren't noticing the full effect of it.

 

"Here's me thinking I'd have to switch to Newports," you smiled, noticing the brands behind the counter you barely recognised - well, you recognised Pall Mall, but only from your old, cheesy movies, you weren't sure if they had them back in the UK or even if you ever noticed.

 

"That'll kill you," Coach Negan says dryly, noticing how the kid nearly shits his pants when he's pulled out of your bubble, and lays his eyes on the sheer size and height of the guy. He's intimidating and he knows it, even in a casual tracksuit, with a wide barrel chest and strong arms with height to match, he knows he's not somebody you want to meet in a dark alley but the response he gets consistently amuses him regardless.

 

"With any luck," was your tart and sarcastic response, before paying up and letting him pay for his gas. There's a tenseness between you, even the pimply kid detects it, and he's quick to serve Negan and absolutely not meet his eyes, mumbling his obligatory prepacked goodbye response to paying customers. 

 

Coach Negan catches how Shaun's eyes linger on your hair bouncing and swinging behind you, and then briefly on your backside, and realises that you probably don't realise the extent of the boy-girl thing, and why Trevor had been so interested in you to begin with. Part of you was, still, somehow rather innocent - more focused on not walking into the errant oil-slick in your dark, black little boots when the pair of you headed outside, oblivious to Shaun's dopey follow-on stare. You didn't even have to be mind-blowingly attractive (though he would not say that you weren't attractive, because you were) - you just had to have that sort of charm about you.

 

And simply put, you did, you had it in spades and bucket loads even when you were awkward with him, you pulled off being awkward in such a way that it was natural and facilitated your queer charm. 

 

The pair of you glanced around for somewhere to sit but, finding none, he walks you to the side of the gas station, a little ways from the ATM machine and watches you lean up against the side wall, rolling a cigarette between your fingers like the idle movement was as natural as breathing.

 

It could be, for you. He honestly barely knew that much about you at all, which made this conversation seem so much more out of place than it already was.

 

"I'll cut the shit and get straight to my point," he thought about skirting around it, asking how you'd been holding up, but that'd be even stranger and make it look like he cared more than maybe he actually did. In truth, he still felt like he was in the shallow end of the pool and hadn't sunk that deeply into whatever the hell college drama you were embroiled in, but that was going to change now, possibly. And then what? This is why Negan seldom ever did the right thing unless it was in his interests to do so, people had accused him of a lot of things in his time, being "good" was not one of them, but, he resolved - he could get his star player back if he could smooth this over. That, and if something...  _bad_ happened at that party, he'd be listening to that little scrap of moral fibre that he still had left.

 

It wasn't massive, it was smaller than most and it was probably why he wasn't exactly the greatest guy in the world, but it's what separated him from the scum of the world. It was important to uphold his ideas and his beliefs and not to compromise them for anything, or he was no better than the people he stepped on, on a regular basis.

 

"I interrogated Trevor in my office about his position on the team,"  he started with that, and watched you shield the lighter flame with your hand and light the end of the cigarette in your fingers, looking out blankly at the long stretch of road.

 

"I thought if he wouldn't talk to you, I'd put the fucking fear of God into him, and he'd talk to me. I wanted to know why he fucked up everything for everyone, and I got him squealing," he watched as you turned to him, a sort of startled look in your dark eyes, before you closed your lips around the filter.

 

"He spoke to me about that Fi Kappa Sci party,"

 

He watched you close your eyes, a flash of pain in your face as you took a long, savouring drag, not that it seemed to do much. The happy flounce you'd had was now disappearing, and your shoulders are slowly drawing up to your ears, millimetre by millimetre as you got more and more tightly wound. Defensive. Just the mention of the party made you defensive.

 

"I won't apologise for his bullshit behaviour, but he had the piss beaten out of him at that party, he was told to stay away from you. He even admitted it was why he said all that nasty shit in front of the team," he said bluntly. This threw you for a loop - who beat up Trevor? What was it about you, that had resulted in Trevor Matthews getting beaten up and forced into dumping you?

 

"Shit," said Coach Negan, leaning into the wall and mimicking your position, but with his arms folded across his broad chest. "-This isn't in my fucking job description, but it's fucked that I know and you don't. That's why we're out here."

 

You felt anxiety bubbling in the base of your stomach.

 

"He saw two guys drag you into a room while you were blacked out, he alleges he went after you and that's why he got the shit beaten out of him, he's scared to be around you,"

 

He watched as you took another long drag and kicked the pile of ash building up off the end of the cigarette, puffing out a thick cloud of smoke from your lips and brushing your dark hair out of your face so the smoke wouldn't cling to it so much. You ran your fingers back through it out of anxious habit, again, chewing on your lip in that manner he'd come to associate with the cogs moving and turning in your mind.

 

"This is something I'd have to go to the fucking dean with, you know that, right?" he frowned "-but you asked me not to. Which, yeah, that's why I'm backed into a fucking corner here. I've got Trevor's story, and the fact he got assaulted, and it's probably two people who attend VMA. Now I could go business as fucking usual, no skin off my ass either way. I replaced Trevor and that's the end of the road for me, but, it's not for you."

 

If he forgets about it, Trevor and possibly you are still in danger, as are the rest of the student body - by whoever those assholes were.

 

What you say next drags his thoughts to screaming, screeching halt, because you were hung up on a detail he didn't expect you to be.

 

"Two people?" you murmured "-two people."

 

That was two people, two people who could have been responsible for you and kept you safe who'd done the exact opposite. That was two people who found you on the bathroom floor of Fi Kappa Sci who could have done right by you, done better by you - but more sickeningly, it's two people who - from the state of Trevor - were very likely people who hurt you while you'd been blacked out. You remember feeling a flash of pain but it was so small and fleeting in the haze of it all that all you could concentrate on was the sounds of the music pounding a floor bellow and the blurred sight of the digital clock.

 

You'd thrown your fucking underwear away the second you got home like you don't want to know what happened. An act of denial hidden in an act of acknowledgement.

 

"Shit," your voice cracked, but you didn't cry, blowing smoke from your nostrils instead and tilting your head into your shoulder like a toy with the batteries yanked out in a moment. You looked up at Coach Negan when you felt his stare boring into you as you stared hopelessly onto the road, like you were fantasising about laying on it and having a good, long sleep.

 

"Coach, I wasn't drunk. I didn't deserve that," he watched you swallow like you'd been given a hard, bitter pill. "-even if I was, I still didn't. I know that, and I know I told you I was drunk and I'd been drinking but never, never in my fucking life from alcohol alone have I  _ever_ had missing time. I had my first drink at fourteen and drank consistently from sixteen on wards and never in my fucking life have I--" you shuddered from the cold breeze that hit you. "-Never have I fucking missed time,"

 

That dread in Negan's gut which he spent most of his time ignoring was starting to ball up and get bigger, he didn't like where this was headed - missing time...?

 

"What didn't you deserve?" he took on that deceptively gentle tone of his.

 

"I was drugged," you said bluntly, glancing away from him and looking at your plume of smoke, feeling a sticking feeling in the base of your throat - like it was reminding you that smoking was bad, that your body didn't like you doing it, and that you were a slave to your toxic whims. "I'm pretty sure I was. I know what it's like, and that's what being drugged is like. It was probably the tequila. I spent days going over it in my head, trying to figure out when I dropped the ball," 

 

Your tone was brutal, clinical, deadpan even - it was everything that Negan didn't expect from you. He expected you to cry, or to be visibly upset. Instead, you were talking like it was somebody else, like you were disassociating, and that it was something that happened every day, that warranted no fanfare.

 

"No cops. You go to the cops and this turns criminal, yeah? They'll, what, they'll make me go and pull the underwear out of my bin, get it DNA tested, they'll question me - maybe take pictures of my body. I have a bruise on my left thigh, it'll be entered into evidence. Then what? They investigate the entire guest list, they grill Trevor for identification. The university informs my mother, my mother sobs her eyes out from the other end of the world, and none of the damage is actually undone. Maybe it goes to trial, or it gets worse before it does,"

 

You let that implication hang for a moment.

 

"The time to do it would have been after, while I still had the drugs in my system for full toxicology, I work in a lab, Coach Negan. This isn't my first rodeo," you said flatly, you smoked the cigarette down to the filter and dropped it to the floor, putting out the embers with the heel of your boot before folding your arms beneath your chest protectively. Defensively.

 

"Your underwear?" He said flatly, just like when you hung up on the fact it was two guys who dragged you into that room, you turned to him, and realised with a sick sense of amusement that this was the first time you'd said it out loud, and that you were saying it to him, of all the fucking people.

 

"Shit, you're going to make me say it aren't you?" you rolled your eyes "-I'm pretty sure I got fucked. You said two people. I did the math. That's me, for four hours of time, blacked out and pretty sure I got fucked, they probably had themselves a hell of a time, a real hoot 'n a holler as Lorelai would say. I was completely out of it, I opened my eyes once and saw in triple and had to close them before I threw up. I did. At some point, but I don't remember."

 

How...

 

How do you not care?

 

Coach Negan was looking at you in a mixture of pure confusion and a misplaced sense of awe, because he was sure you would be (and should be) in a worse state than Trevor Matthews had been in the admin office of the Sports Hub. Instead, you were talking like you were shooting the shit about the weather, like you didn't give a damn about that violation that you thought had occurred. It explained a lot, it explained why you seemed so shattered and so different since the day Trevor came back with his black eye. It was all starting to make sense now - the anger at boxing, the avoiding of the sports team who were at the party, the dishevelled appearance you'd had when you came in. 

 

"I thought my heart was gonna burst out of my chest, so yeah. Definitely drugged, maybe even targeted. Or unlucky. Shit, you don't think this is all I've been thinking about?"

 

It was all making sense now, and he felt a sort of revulsion that he couldn't quite articulate, because this was the ultimate exploitation of the weak - you should at least give someone a fighting chance. He knew just through the nature of his job and his years of teaching that women from the waist down generally had more strength than men, but dimorphically, even the weakest man might have a better shot at taking down a small woman. There was just an overwhelming amount of unfairness built into biological nature that made it easy for men to overpower women, and so there was no glory to be found in pinning down and sexually assaulting a woman. There was even less for a woman who was utterly unconscious. It was a horrible thing, a disgusting thing. But here you stood, as bold as brass, going over the events clinically, aloud, to someone you didn't have that kind of a closeness with.

 

He had to admit, he was admiring you for that.

 

"Trevor can probably ID these people, and you don't want police involved?"" he said slowly, eyebrows drawn into a scowl.

 

Okay, time to be a responsible faculty member.

 

"I can go with you to the police."

 

You gave him a startled look - now that was a genuinely nice sentiment that you didn't expect from him, before shaking your head in exasperation.

 

"I thought about this," you mumbled "-I thought about this a lot. Even if it's a closed case, hook, line and sinker - the best case scenario, yeah? I become 'That Girl' and I don't want to be  _that girl_ who gets defined by the worst thing to happen to them and is stuck with that until graduation. They can try to gag order it, but it'll get out, because it always does. It's the nature of the game. I've seen this play out before, with other people. In England,"

 

If only this was the worst thing to ever happen to you, you thought darkly.

 

"And this isn't some vanity thing where all I care about is what some assholes think, this will probably definitely end up getting sent to Detective Inspector Cortez, who already has the threat letter. He'll have to investigate it as potentially related, and whether it is or it isn't, it doesn't matter, because then it gets linked to an active murder investigation, and the whole thing becomes a clusterfuck either way. That's how it happens. That's what will happen, and I can't.... I can't stomach that. Do you get me, Coach? I can't deal with the whole world knowing and I don't want to be dragged through the ringer," 

 

Shit.

 

"If it is related, they should know, and what stops these fuckers doing it again? We need to know who they are, at least," said Coach Negan, finding himself trying to placate you because he could not poke holes in your long list of assumptions, it honestly sounded like you knew the system better than he did, and he didn't doubt for a second that you were correct. "Aren't you and Trevor in danger too, if you don't?"

 

"I'll figure it out," you glanced away from him again "-I went through the list of people interested and registered as attending on the Facebook event, it didn't ring any bells, but now you've told me about Trevor, I can send him the list and see if he can pick out the names, don't look so surprised. I did some amateur investigating,"

 

Fucking hell, you were smart, really fucking smart - he wasn't sure he'd have even thought to do that or known where to begin if he was somehow in your position.

 

"And then?" Coach Negan pushed, you shrugged.

 

"I'll find a perfectly legal and above-board way of ruining their lives," you deadpanned "-I'm creative like that,"

 

"I don't for a second doubt that, but you have to convince me that I'm not being massively fucking irresponsible by letting you let this go. I have an obligation to you, to Trevor, to the fucking dean, the student body. You're asking me to ignore a lot, so you gotta fuckin' convince me that this is the right thing to do," he said, quite seriously. He turned to his side, leaning on his tremendous shoulder as he leaned against the wall and looked down on you with an unreadable expression. 

 

"I'll be cool, I'll let a lot of shit slide. I catch you drinking? Fine. I smell a bit of pot? Do. Not. Care. But this? This is... " he let out a low whistle "-this is some shit. This isn't a few beers or an ounce of weed, this is rape and assault, you get that, right?"

 

There, he said it. The R Word. 

 

He watched as you visibly recoiled at his end sentence, and resumed chewing on your lip, before pushing your hair back over your shoulders and daring yourself to stare up into his cold, limitless stare that you used to find so imposing but now just found frustrating in their unread-ability. He didn't move but felt you encroach his space, taking a tiny step forward and taking your back off of the wall, pushing your chest up unwittingly with your arms folded and if he didn't know any better, he'd say you were doing it on purpose. You weren't - but you were using that unwitting boy-girl charm of yours and giving him a doe-like sort of expression, the kind of look you'd give someone when you were about to get into trouble and would do anything to get out of it.

 

"Don't you think I get that, more than anybody?" your voice was a small, urgent whisper as you released your lower-lip, which was starting to swell slightly.

 

"But it's  _my_ body, it should be  _my_ choice, and if Trevor chooses to go to the cops and drags me into it that way, then that's fine, since they hurt him too. Not the same way, but they did. I'd get that, it's his right. But you weren't in this. What happened that night, it's nothing to do with you, Coach. It happened to me and Trevor and we should be the only ones who get to control this. I don't mean that in a mean way either, but the second this slips out from us, the narrative isn't ours anymore. People will say and think what they want, and y'know, clearly Trevor's made a choice here too. He's chosen not to say anything so far, because he thinks that'll keep us safe. I mean, you think keeping quiet's the easy option? It's not! It's really not!" 

 

You were so close you might have almost touched.

 

"I hear what you're saying, I do. But I'll promise you, right here, the second I know who they are, I'll find a way to make sure they don't hurt anybody like that ever again. Don't ask me how - I don't think you should be involved any more than that, but I can... I can make a couple of calls. I can sort it. I can do it...in-house style."

 

Now that sounded fucking ominous and he didn't bother hiding his look of intrigue.

 

"Do you even know anybody here? You haven't been here that long, pretending that what you said didn't sound like a fucking threat for a moment," he said.

 

You cringed.

 

"It's... I have...extended family, that I can contact. I'll probably get their newest number and let them know, before I left here, mum said if I got into any kind of trouble to call them, so I'll probably do that. Don't ask me how my family sorts things, it's something I don't ask them either."

 

Negan went quiet. Shit. What were you involved in? Who the fuck WERE you?

 

"Don't make me beg, Coach."

 

Instead, he breathed out softly in a mixture of shock, surprise and raw intrigue, like you'd suckered him into your world whether you realised it or not, and were close to having him wrapped around your little finger with the kind of look you were giving him. Everything right down from the smarts you demonstrated, to the clinical coldness, and now? The almost threat-like implications of being able to handle your own problems, it was fascinating. At first, he just thought you were an awkward nerd who bisected their food and poked dead bodies all day, but he was very quickly learning you were a multifaceted woman, and your origins - which you mentioned that night in McDonalds after the Palgrave incident, they were finally showing. Your true colours were coming out just a bit.

 

It was fascinating. 

 

More than any other college drama he'd ever bore witness to.

 

"Who _are_ you?" he said in a low, almost dangerous sort of tone, like he wanted to know exactly what you had in store for the people who had assaulted you and Trevor at the Fi Kappa Sci party. You looked away from him and kicked the cigarette butt down the slit of a sewer grate idly, wiping ash off of the heel of your boot.

 

"Just a Mort Sci student, Coach," you sighed "-A Mort Sci student with some _real_ bad luck. Thank you though, for uh, coming to me with this first and not going straight to the dean. I know what being burdened with knowledge is like, it kinda fucking sucks, doesn't it?"

 

He was silent as you laughed humorlessly.

 

"Y'know, everyone reckons you're kind of a mean asshole, and they could be right, but, you've been super cool to me," you said when you stopped laughing, because you could see his expression was still dark and concerned. "-and this is you being more than cool, you're... you're kind of saving my ass from a world of trouble by keeping this between us. I appreciate it, I really do. It's not easy keeping quiet," you said, repeating your earlier point as you began to head for your moped, but not before giving him a friendly sort of casual slap on the arm, your small hand landing on his bicep as you gave him a crooked smile.

 

He couldn't return it, he could see the pained sort of stare you had.

 

"Thank you, Coach. You're a stand-up guy."

 

Huh, he wasn't sure he'd ever been called that before, and he watched you walk away, feeling oddly helpless as you kicked the stand out from your moped, and turned the ignition, before slowly pulling out of the gas station, tossing on the helmet and holding up one hand in a goodbye gesture.

 

Negan wasn't sure he liked feeling helpless, and made a mental note to catch up with you once you got those names. This just didn't feel right. Not at all. Not one bit.

 

_I need a drink._

 

* * *

 

 

_Turn Left._

 

Your head was spinning as you drove your moped down the long stretch of road, following your mobile's GPS. Shit. Trevor. Poor fucking Trevor. Jesus. This was fucked, this was fifty ways to fucked and you knew it. You promised a staff member too that you'd resolve this somehow too, without it blowing up in your face and going to the cops. Fucking, buggering fuck. That left you with the option of your extended family, the ones who lived a life you would lust over, funded by criminal enterprise. With your Charles Rangel Scholarship, and how much you relied on being squeaky fucking clean, you needed to keep yourself an entire world apart from them. 

 

The lives of your cousins, Rajesh and Gurpal Singh had to stay a fucking world apart from yours. The last time you'd seen them had been at your sixteenth birthday, and they had rolled into your council estate, fresh off of the plane in shoes which were easily more expensive than anything your family had their entire house. Rajesh had kissed you on the cheek, and given you a roll of cash, before wishing you a happy birthday. Gurpal had asked if you were still getting bullied in school for being as smart as you were, and didn't comment on the smell of weed stuck to the curtains in your bedroom.

 

They were nice guys, the best cousins you could have, but people you never wanted to be anywhere near if you wanted to remain squeaky clean. 

 

You let your phone direct you to the kind of hole in the wall place you were looking for. It didn't matter where in the world you were, America or the UK, if it's one thing you could count on your race for, it was for them to own a fucking corner shop somewhere, and not necessarily just the stereotypical grocery store. Mobile stores. You could easily expect to see a South Asian behind the counter and you didn't care if it was stereotypical, it was where money was best made and you found yourself massively grateful for the trend. It meant that the second you spoke Punjabi, you could get yourself some good camaraderie in some places and invaluable customer service.

 

_It's not just you in this now. You have to do this for you, for Trevor, and now, for Coach._

 

You parked your moped out front and walked to the store your GPS had brought you to. You smiled, though it was unfamiliar, it reminded you easily of the Fones4U store on the high street back in your slum. You could expect these places to have a similar sort of veneer no matter where in the world you found them, and that was comforting. The outside looked as unimpressive as they all were, small, boxed between two places and with a half-lit neon sign that read "UNLOCKING! REPAIRS! TRADE!" - oh yes, this was definitely owned by a South Asian. Ravi would agree - and there it was, the typical international sim-card deal, plastered over one half of the window in a bright, garish blue.

 

Perfect. Exactly what you were looking for.

 

You opened the door and sighed in relief at the fact that there were some things that remained the same no matter where in the world you went. There was a little jingle that woke the man at the counter, who seemed to be staring into a magazine with a glazed-over look. Just visually, you might guess Bangladeshi, you weren't sure, but smiled at him when you met his eyes, ignoring the shameless rake over your form. 

 

Behind sheets of glass were traded phones of various quality, and then, the accent rolled over you.

 

"Can I help you, Miss?"

 

You ran your hands over the glass, frowning as you saw nothing but brand names. Shit.

 

"I'm looking for a phone," you said, as he murmured in surprise at your accent, before giving into temptation and mangling Punjabi into your speech for that sense of familiarity that reminded you of your multicultural slum back home. The second you did, you felt the conversation feel smoother - lighter, even.

 

"Not like these.  _Cini -_ Chinese, Chinese Android - they take more sim cards. Yes? Two or three usually, and I need a three sim phone," you said flatly "-Don't care about the price,"

 

Huh, they usually didn't sell well because people preferred to use brands they knew, but the man didn't question it, they were a good choice for people making international calls, because you could switch between any of them just in your settings without having to so much as switch your phone off.

 

Typically, he also tried to sell you a sim-card deal, and after a moment of thought, you went for it. 

 

"Good for making calls back to India," he said with a knowing smile "-or England. Cheaper."

 

Unfortunately, there was no phone that really had no GPS system in it these days and even if they didn't, all you need to track somebody was a little bit of trigonometry and knowledge of the cell tower closest to when you used the phone and you could find almost anyone. The good thing was, Chinese smartphones hurt a whole lot less to get rid of than a normal one, but were a damn sight more useful than your old, standard brick phones, so you brought one, and a couple of sim cards.

 

"No receipt."

 

 _Who were you =_ indeed, you walked out of CrazyPhonez with a heavier pocket and a lighter wallet, but very much satisfied, taking a drag of a crisp, fresh cigarette.

 

It was time to call mum.

 

You did end up driving to Barnes & Noble eventually, and found yourself walking up and down the aisles with an almost mindless sort of shuffle about you, your fingers running over the spines of several books. You weren't just here to clear your head or to explore the rest of the land around your campus, no. Not at all. Everything you did, you did with a purpose in mind, all of your moves from this point on, you realised - had to be masterful strokes. The fact was, somebody had threatened you, and didn't like you, you were then assaulted after the fact, and Trevor Matthews was told to hush.

 

Your eyes narrowed as you picked out a random book, suddenly, your little day out felt a lot heavier, and a lot more plagued.

 

_These people._

 

_I'm going to make them regret fucking me over._

 

* * *

 

Something about you changed again, but Professor Mattius has zero complaints about it. You were driven and focused again - using the gear around you like it came naturally, picking up on subcutaneous bruising with the UV light as you traced down the body of a woman called Jonah Millican. He had no regrets about putting you on the intern list, but he had to wonder why you didn't want to work on the body you had been so excited to work on prior to this, enough to separate from your lab partner too. You fed him some line about the deputy, and shit, Mattius wasn't blind - he could see when you had looked at him desperately to get you away from Deputy Walsh when he came over.

 

"I'll keep you off active cases," he chuckled, watching over you as you began documenting the bruising. "-as best I can, we get most of our bodies that way, but I can be a buffer if you'd prefer. There's no real reason for you two to interact anyway, I just wanted to further your prospects by having them know who was responsible for the find. It's good to have friends in high places," 

 

He paused.

 

"But I'll tell you a secret," he said, taking his gloves off and sterilising, for what might be the fourth time that day after he tossed them into the waste bin. "-Us guys? We're kind of stupid."

 

You gave Professor Mattius a startled look, glancing up from Jonah's body, and he smiled at you - with that smile which had made you stick "fatherly" under his name on the list of Guys Better Than Trevor Matthews.

 

"High fallutin' cops included, so I wouldn't break a sweat over it if I were you," he smiled somewhat knowingly, and you looked at him like he was some sort of a mind reader, it's not like Shane had touched your ass or something, how did he possibly detect that you two were a thing, at any point?

 

"How...?" you exhaled "-I mean I'm pretty sure we were extra quiet about it, he didn't seem to want to shout it from rooftops."

 

Mattius continued to smile at you.

 

"I'm a guy who knows guys and it was pretty easy to spot it in his body language, plus that desperate 'please don't leave me here' look you gave me, it was hard to miss," the professor chuckled, causing you to pout without really realising you were. You were starting to get annoyed by the fact you were surrounded by smart people.

 

"If that's what's throwing you off your game as of late, I'm glad you seem to be improving, I really don't want your academic performance to suffer," he smiled "-you're one of my most promising students."

 

Shit, if only you knew. Every time you were around the man you had to chew down the overwhelming urge to ask about the omissions of Dr Eichmann and the autopsy report, but it had to be linked to the threat you received, and you knew that Mattius was at least tangentially aware of it, being as it concerned an autopsy in the Mortuary Science department.

 

"Lizzie doing okay?" you asked, purely from an academic standpoint.

 

"Oh she's..." he hummed "-she's an interesting one, I'll give you that, but she's doing fine."

 

You glanced down at the birthday present she gave you, hanging off your neck, and put down your pen, handing him the report and beginning the sterilisation process. You had to go check in on Lizzie, and make sure that she wasn't getting any threats still, you were rather religious about it. You turned up to her room in your pyjamas which was always a silent invitation to hang out with each other, shoot the shit, study-buddy or start to get high. It was one of those things you kept away from Lorelai, she might be a little straight edge for that.

 

If she was straight edge, you were completely crooked.

 

It spoke volumes of your trust though, that you could still do that after knowing what happened to you now, and being drugged unwittingly. Sure, it was an entirely different kind of high, but you trusted Lizzie not to hurt you. That's why you were sitting there on her bed, feeling the hard lump of the tablet stuck in your throat. You swallowed it, but it felt so heavy going down. You felt the buzz going down through your veins, she had you on pain medication this time, you didn't ask where she got it or what it was prescribed for. The girl was a fucking pharmacy, pure and simple.

 

"I miss working with you on the John," you closed your eyes as you felt Lizzie's hand clumsily pat you on the shoulder.

 

Yeah, this felt like a prescription attempt at MDMA, but it was working, just in terms of effect.

 

It felt good. Not scary. Good - where everything in your veins was pure yearning, enjoying the sensation of the bed sheets and pyjamas against your flesh. 

 

"I miss working with you too - but that threat Lizzie, I couldn't ignore it, I mean between Shane, Trevor, everything else, it's all bad omens this week, I thought not to push my fucking luck."

 

Shit.

 

"You're kinda heavy for an airy waif," you uttered, feeling her roll on top of you and make you wince - yeah, it felt pretty nice, from a purely drugged up standpoint, but it wasn't appropriate. You heard her knock the stereo with her foot, causing the volume to rise slightly on her music - you noticed she liked to listen to Kat Dahlia when she was like this. You didn't know what it did for her, but you didn't stop her listening to it, it just meant it was stuck in your head at maybe the worst of times, but it did seem painfully Lizzie. She was all about atmosphere, and had to be aware of the almost mythical one that she tended to give off.

 

"Are you calling me fat?" she teased, but her facial expression betrayed nothing. "-Also, consider not dating idiot boys?"

 

"This is me telling you to get your tits out of my face," you said bluntly, closing your eyes "-there's something I didn't expect to say this week."

 

Then she did it, and fucked it all up all over again, as if the week wasn't fucked enough as it was. You trusted her not to hurt you, and you did trust her - a whole lot, that's maybe why it hurt a bit and you shoved her off of your body so violently that she fell off the bed with an incredibly loud thud, enough that somebody from another room yelled and asked if you two were okay.

 

It wasn't that you didn't mind Lizzie Samuels getting stupidly off her head and kissing you, it was that she did it just for some stupid, mindless, drug-induced reason after you already told her to get off of you. It wasn't that you didn't know how to have a good time, nor was the kiss particularly awful, you just remember feeling an awful sort of discomfort around it and it centred from the fact that you simply were not attracted to her in that way and that really was all there was to it.

 

"Ow!" Lizzie said, wincing as she hit the floor and curled up in some pain, not that she could feel much of it. "It was just a joke, what was that for?" she whined.

 

Ordinarily, you might have let it pass, but not this week.

 

"I wanted to trust you!" you snapped, throwing the covers off of you and sliding into your trainers as she gave you a bewildered look with her dilated pupils. She didn't know why - but it sounded like you might cry, and she had a sneaking suspicious that a clumsy little kiss on the mouth didn't manage to do it all on its own.

 

"Hey, don't get mad - it's - it was nothing, we're just really high --"

 

"Fucking - fuck! I wanted to trust you, Lizzie!"

 

She heard your voice crack, but didn't see your face as you stormed out, if she had - then she would have seen how upset you were. Instead, you simply shut the door behind you, and managed to do it with such force that a bang echoed, and all she could do was sit there, frowning.

 

She knew she should go after you, but if you were leaving and upset, it was because you didn't want to be seen upset, and she was in no state to go traipsing down the hall with double vision, chasing after you. Frankly, she wasn't even sure how you'd make it to your dorm room, and instead, she laid on her back on the floor, cursing.

 

"Way to go Lizzie," she sighed.

 

_Fuck up the one friendship you have._

 

 


	8. Confidentiality

 

 

It’s a bit public, but it’s quiet. The dull hubbub of Barnes & Noble is hardly a pounding club or bustling diner, but the café inside is pretty peaceful. Lime green seats and small, shining wooden desks a short four upward steps from lines and lines of books. Starbucks have got to be making a killing, you think – and wonder just how frightened Trevor is that he felt the need to park his corvette on a different road entirely and walk on foot here.

 

He was dressed in baggy tracksuit pants and a non-matching hoodie, he couldn’t look shiftier if he tried, meanwhile you were dressed quite contently in your heeled boots, leggings and a long shirt-dress, fingers drumming impatiently against the desk.

 

“Is this really necessary?”  you asked in low tones after he collected his drink and sat across from you. You watch as took off a pair of large sunglasses and put them in his pockets, causing you to roll your eyes. Glancing at his black eye, you can see it’s at least healing, and he’s looking slightly less worse for wear.

 

“This place is a bit public isn’t it?” there is a bit of nervousness in Trevor’s voice, and you resist the urge to actively scoff. It was time to take stock of the guy again, you’d done it purely aesthetically and from his charming manner, but who was Trevor really? He was an upper middle-class white kid whose probably never been in trouble in his life, green as could be. It would explain a lot, and his taste for the wild side.

 

Maybe he bit off more than he could chew with you, and a naughty night in a theatre is as hard as Trevor Matthews can go.

 

“Two students meeting in a bookstore is as ordinary as could be,” you said flatly, picking up your steaming mug – it’s a white chocolate mocha, and it’s pretty good to be honest. It’s a bit more money than you’d expect to pay, but worth it. Trevor didn’t even look at the menu, he already had an order at this place, like he was used to it. He’s a Starbuck’s Kid – different class. It’s this shit that you pick up on, all of the little hints and the cues that people don’t pay enough attention to. Trevor’s from another world, it’s why he’s shitting his pants right now as he nurses a caramel macchiato.

 

“What’ve you got for me, Trevor?” you asked, frowning as he dug around in his pockets for his phone.

 

Yeah, he’s pretty green – he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that much is clear. He’s petrified that the people who beat him up are somehow watching him, it explains the paranoia down to a T, and makes you wonder how much of what he told Coach Negan was everything that happened. He could be holding onto something, anything – because he’s scared.

 

So part of you isn’t surprised when he brings up the Facebook event on his phone and slides it to you and says that none of the people on “Interested” or “Going” or checked-in matched the description.

 

“It’s nobody on the list,” and he squirms under your gaze while you put the steaming mug down and sigh, breathing the hot steam out over to him. You don't even bother hiding your disappointment, and it's almost tangible, but Trevor - green as he is, he surprises you. Maybe it's something Coach Negan said, or some part of him is braver and smarter than you think, because he took the phone back and began urgently tapping at the screen, scrolling through pictures, before pulling up one, and zooming in on it with two fingers pinching the touchscreen.

 

"But I have a picture," he said, and not only that, but he begins rooting around in his bag, and hands you a crisp, folded sheet of paper.

 

Shit, it looks like Trevor has a few tricks of his own. He printed it out, and slid it over to you, with a few other photos which aren't in the album.

 

"I took some screenshots and printed them out when I realised people were going through them and untagging themselves or getting them taken down. It happens after every major party where people whip their cells out, the rule is that you're not supposed to, but after a few drinks, judgement..." he shrugs. "-And you know we all got a big talk at orientation - you being a freshman and all they'd have really driven it home, that we don't put stupid crap online? It'll get you called into a room and given a boot up the ass real quick so, after a party all the questionable shots get taken down pretty quick. All the drunken uploads. I figured that picture didn't have much of a life so I took it and printed them out, for you," he said softly, watching as your eyes raked down the paper.

 

Trevor watched the colour drain out of your face, but that's the only reaction you have, he's gone out of his way to crop the photos and zero in on the persons responsible.

 

"Two people," you said shortly, reciting what Coach Negan said.

 

"I couldn't find a picture of the other one, but yeah," Trevor sighed "-he's in the background, they're candid, so he's not facing the camera in any of them - it's not the best quality but - they're good enough? Right? I went through everything, I spent two days looking through it, nonstop. I thought - shit, I should have called the cops," he said, bitterness in his tone. "-I was out of it though, I got hit really hard and I was just on the floor, I didn't even think - my phone - I just, fuck."

 

You know what he's trying to say, he's building up to say sorry, like that'll fix it, but you hold your hand up to silence him and go back to nursing your drink.

 

"I need you to run me through everything that happened to you that night, if you want this to stay under the hood, you don't pull any punches with me," he blinked at your tone. You were serious, and clinical - things he didn't expect from you, but honestly, he was surprised to hear from you at all. You knew he wouldn't return your calls or your texts, so when he went to collect his things from his unofficial-but-clearly-designated locker, you slipped a note in there, and you waited. You knew the threat of going to the police would draw him out like a fly to shit, and so here he was, with information that might as well have a ribbon wrapped around it.

 

He told you everything, or at least, what you thought was everything. You could never be one hundred percent sure, but something in him had to have changed for him to go this far to help, especially when he dropped the ball so many times previous. In fact, you were recording it all, not for any nefarious reason, but so you could go over it, again and again. You weren't about to start scrawling everything down, and making him nervous - so you just set your phone to record, and left it in your open handbag, perched neatly on the third chair at the table.

 

"Martin's on the door, checking student IDs, but the party wraps up around 5AM, and he takes a break every now and then to swap out with Colt, but both of them were inside by around 2AM because no new guests were coming in and we were still playing Gets," he smiled at the memory, but noticed your face remained pale, and blank.

 

"I waited thirty minutes then thought you fell in or something, or that you were really ill, so I started going through all the bathrooms until I found two guys. Photo guy and a guy with a beard dragging you while your eyes were shut. Photo guy says 'I'm going to help her rest it off' - and I'm wasted but I think... you're tiny, and it doesn't take two. I don't recognise them, they're not in sports and they're definitely not Fi Kappa Sci but they're students or they wouldn't have gotten in. That photo went up around 1AM while we were hiding around playing games so maybe we don't see them come in, but they definitely had student IDs," he says flatly "-You're not the only one who can't stop thinking about it."

 

You see the guilt glistening in his eyes and you sigh, in truth you've wanted to dry heave since you unfolded the piece of paper, but you kept going. There was no sense in getting Trevor more worked up than he already clearly was.

 

"I asked Martin already, he doesn't remember the IDs - he saw a million that night but said the beardy guy's looked Jewish-y. Schwartz? Schweikart? Sch-something, that's all I've got," he swallowed thickly. "Is it enough?"

 

You closed your eyes and slid the paper into your bag.

 

"And then what happened," you gestured to his eye, and then his lip, and Trevor cringed - because it wasn't a moment that filled him with pride. "-pull no punches, they clearly didn't,"

 

You ignored the expression of distaste at the little jab.

 

"I went for the door and got it open for all of one second to see you on the bed, beardy punches me in the nose but he punches like my little sister, so I charged back in thinking. Fuck - fuck, this is so fucked. Photo guy storms out when he hears me pounding and screaming on the door, knocks me onto the floor, tells me to go nowhere near you, and to sleep somewhere else. I passed out, woke up covered in more bruises, I think I might have got a concussion but, I...shit, look at me complaining," he mumbled "-I have no right complaining."

 

"Fucking Hell, was it so bad you couldn't come to me?  You had to embarrass me like that?" you said softly.

 

"It wasn't just for me!" Trevor insisted "-I mean, he said - I mean, it's a little fuzzy, but he said 'stay out, for you and for her, this will be over shortly' - like it was fucking business or something," he swallowed down more of his caramel macchiato like he could drown himself in it. "I mean who says shit like that? Who does shit like that?"

 

"And that note, fucking hell English," he said, inching his fingers closer to yours and giving them a very slight, delicate little brush with his own, his voice going down an octave as he leaned in. There's concern in his face now, no matter how green he is, the concern is absolutely there and you know he's done more than what you asked him to, with the pictures and all. "-What was with that note?"

 

"You wouldn't return calls or texts and I cant corner you at practice anymore, so I took some initiative, and I had to put the shits up you to get you here. I'm not going to the police with this, that was the deal. You give me this, and I don't take it anywhere formal. It's all for me," you said shortly "-I need to know who assaulted me and it's that simple. I need to know who to keep away from and to keep myself safe. That's all this is so you can stop shitting yourself a minute,"

 

Trevor sags with relief.

 

"And you know these guys? They... they seemed really business to me. Really scary, it's... why I parked out that far, I mean shit. They were complete fucking thugs, they were older and taller and - shit I thought weedy but they hit like a fucking truck," Trevor mumbled.

 

You raised a brow at him - now that didn't match up at all with the "Photo Guy" - because yes, you recognised him. Oh yes, you did. It was such a radically different image to what you knew the guy as, that you looked at Trevor like he was lying, but the way he was talking - voice crackling and all. He didn't look like he was lying, he didn't sound like it either. You could usually smell that with ease, especially on people as green as Trevor was - the question was now, how much did you trust that? Glancing at your bag, the pictures were all there, in colour. "Photo Guy," at the very least, shouldn't be at that party. There's no rule saying he can't be, and he definitely attends VMA, and you knew why nobody recognised him.

 

He was from the Science Institute.

 

"Beardy guy. Jewish-name, did he have brown, curly hair - squared sort of face?" you said quietly, Trevor nodded, and you felt even more sick than before.

 

"You know these guys?"

 

You didn't bother to dignify it with an answer, it was obvious from your expression that you did but as far as Trevor's involvement was concerned, you were ready to cut him out. For his own good. He watched as you finished your hot drink in a few long gulps and got up, picking up your handbag and slinging it over your shoulder, hip pressed to the side of the table as you stood across from him. You took stock of his injuries again, and wondered briefly - how many times back in your slum in Cheshire, had anyone even gotten up and tried to help you when you were passed out, and thought you were close to overdosing. How many had battered down the door to keep you safe? How many people took an assbeating for that? None. Nada. Zilch.

 

_He's too green for this. Don't involve him anymore, look at him, he can barely deal with this as it is. You're the strong one here. Not Trevor._

 

"He's not Jewish, it was a fake ID," you said shortly, before leaning down and pressing your lips to his face - he closed his bruised eye, he didn't expect this. He wasn't sure what he did to deserve this - was it the effort he put in? The searching? The fact he came to meet you even though he was strong armed and terrified? You kissed where the skin was still swollen and fading in discolouration, but it was close enough to his eye that he closed it and moved his head just a little to feel your lips for a bit longer. This was originally a Freshman Fling, but with how heavy with guilt he was, and how clearly enamoured he was, it was starting to feel like he really had lost out on something important.

 

"I'm going to believe you Trevor," you said softly "-I'm going to take this, and I'm going to straighten things out, and you won't have to be scared anymore. You just keep going on, business as usual,"

 

_He doesn't have to know about the threat. He doesn't have to know that this is now very much involved with something much bigger._

 

"But they - but they hurt you!" Trevor balked "-how can you go near them?" he whispered quietly as you pulled yourself away from him "-what're you going to do? You're... you're you!"

 

You're tiny. You're soft. You jump in heels to kiss him. You're a nerdy Mortuary Science student. You're... _you._

 

"Whatever you know or think you know, whatever they told you when they beat you up, ignore it. Don't worry about me, you uh, you kinda lost that right when you dumped me, y'know?" you said, your fingers brushing his shoulder - this wasn't right. You were good together. A Starbucks kid and a Cheshire slum rat, together at last, unconventional but go together like chicken and gravy, you two - you worked. You worked and you charmed each other senseless and holy hells - that steaming night at the showing of the original Kong? Some people go their whole lives without having fun like that. Sex like that.

 

"Enjoy your Starbucks," he watched you walk away, and stared vacantly at his mug, hoping that he did the right thing.

 

God, he was proving to be terrible about it, so hopefully with all of the work he did, the nights and hours of pouring over those Facebook photos - he hoped it was enough.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Not today, really God, not-fucking-today. You rolled along the roads, trundling along the stretch of road until you felt the moped begin to stutter, and you felt sick. It was like your bag had become impossibly heavy as you lined it with evidence that Trevor had given you, and now, you were just riding until you felt the anxiety curling in your gut to a point that you couldn't hold it in. You swerved into a small alley, and you didn't even have time to kick the stand up, your moped fell with a very loud bang, some of your books tumbling out of the basket onto the pavement.

 

A sick feeling rose up in your gut, and you lurched - throwing up.

 

Now there was a waste of a white chocolate mocha, splaying it out all over the pavement. Thank God it was an empty sort of area, you didn't think you could handle people coming after you and asking if you were okay. You were absolutely not okay, from the description, you knew who beard guy was, and you knew who was in the photos. You ran your hand through your hair when you finished, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand with a cringe. At least you'd held it together in front of Trevor for long enough, and maybe some of that vomiting was from all the medication, you didn't know. 

 

Now your moped was stuttering, and you had to take the dead thing back to campus or get a hire service to take it or something. You didn't know any by heart, and you had half a mind to go back to the seller and ask if they'd given you a fucking lemon or what - maybe it was just bad luck. It looked fine when you got it, it had to be bad luck.

 

You took a chance, and googled the closest mechanic, luckily, there was one that specialised in motorbikes, which included mopeds - they just didn't get that many in. It didn't have any worded reviews, but it was rated highly, and thankfully, not too much of a pain to slog the vehicle there, without having to start calling around for help and eating into your money. That was about all you fucking needed. You could drag your moped to the repair shop and get a taxi from there to campus - hopefully it'd be a minor repair.

 

This was turning out to be a horrible day, even with the sun shining.

 

You felt the ground get rockier under your heels and scowled up a storm, watching as a metal chain-link fence came into view. You had to have been walking a while now, and in heels it was probably doing you a lot of good in terms of a workout but that was about it. The cars speeding past did nothing to fix your mood and if you hadn't thrown up the only thing you'd digested, you might have hung around and thrown up more.

 

 _The world keeps on turning -_ you reminded yourself, before you felt Coach Negan's words in your mind.

 

_Autoshop guys - bend over, flirt - you might get a discount._

 

Yeah, you didn't know how well you were going to do, trying to do that consciously, but you glanced down at your shirt, and began undoing the first few couple of buttons until you could see your navy bra peeking out from the long shirt-dress. It was a simple little thing, actually one of yours that you brought for an interview when you were trying to claw your way out of Cheshire, you remembered wearing it to your talk with the admissions officer for VMA - only with the buttons done up, clearly. It was a long-sleeve polo-shirt style dress. The collar is polka-dotted too, but the whole thing is black, with white pin-stripes going down it - you stick out a bit. Like you're a bit too formal for this repair shop in the middle of a wasteland. 

 

It took you all of five minutes of staring through the chain link fence at the dust-covered cars which probably would never get fixed, some missing tires, clearly ready for the scrapheap, to know this was a chop-shop - there was a junkyard not far from there. It was a perfect place to do repairs, you mused. A chop shop here was about the same as those in England, stolen cars - or just, cars that you come across in a not-so-typical fashion. You take them in for scrap, you get the money for parts, the thing becomes unrecognisable, and even if the police find the bits, it's all pretty useless.

 

You glanced up at the unlit neon sign that hung up on a tall pole, it looked like something dragged out of an 80s biker flick - the logo, anyway, with two checked flag handles crossing each other.

 

It read as " _Dixon Bros."_

 

A family chop-shop from the sounds of it, or maybe it was just a name and they were too lazy to change it when they took ownership, you remembered a funeral parlour back home called Wexler & Sons - the owner never bothered to change the name when the family ditched the business for whatever reason, his reasoning was "branding," - in fact, if you remembered right, the "Son" in "Wexler & Sons," died and the original Wexler was long gone.

 

Kind of a funny way for a funeral business to go, you mused as you began to drag in your moped. The inside of the place looked like a warehouse almost, with a large metal shutter reeled up to reveal several motorbikes - one of them a tri-wheeler, a kitted out Harley Davidson classic from the look of it, made into an utter monster of a thing that'd take up a good quarter of the road. It was a beast - and you didn't bother to hide your appreciation for the thing, it seemed there was a fair amount of motorbikes there, and it made your dorky little cherry moped with the polkadot seat look a bit silly by comparison.

 

You glanced at your phone at the time, looking at the reflection of your lips on the screen as though checking for errant white chocolate mocha - hopefully these people wouldn't charge you out of the ass, how expensive could a little moped repair be, anyway? You just didn't need this day to get any worse - you really didn't.

 

_Bend over. Flirt._

 

Yeah, right. Like you could keep your shit together long enough to do that. You just found out who assaulted you while you were unconscious, your stomach felt like a goddamn tumble-dryer. You felt like you should be sitting in a room and throwing up into a bin until your organs came out, if you were honest, but now was not the time to fall apart. The fact was, your choice was to sit in a gutter and cry about it by a broken moped, or at the very least, get it fixed, get a taxi to campus - and  _then_ cry, and try to patch things up with Lizzie, talk to Lorelai. Fuck, maybe get in touch with Ravi and Lindsay again, you could do with some friends. After today, you really felt like you needed to surround yourself with good people.

 

_Work now, cry later._

 

Brushing down the lipstick at the bow of your lip, you shoved it back into your bag and wheeled the moped in, calling out nervously.

 

"Uhm, hello? You guys open?" you called out, only to nearly jump out of your skin when you heard the sound of wheels rolling, and a tall figure roll out from the underside of the car. They were dressed in a deep navy coloured jumpsuit, covered in dirt and oil slicks and various stains you couldn't account for. They certainly looked the part of a mechanic, "chop shop" or not - frankly you didn't care much about their side business, as long as they fixed your fucking moped, and besides - you doubted there'd be any useful parts to take off of it anyway.

 

"Yeah, we are," his accent was thick, and you instantly got a redneck sort of vibe as the guy rose to his feet. He was probably early 50s - late forties, but not too much in the way of wrinkes, just tired sort of eyes but what shocked you were how blue they were. They weren't as bright as the Grimes boy, the shade of blue was a lot softer, more like the sky than the ocean, and instantly you got the feel that he was the tough, grizzled type. Another figure came out too - from an office to the side, you detected a similar sort of bone structure straight off - shit, the kind of things a Mort Sci notices - but his eyes, while the same shade, seem less severe.

 

The guy in front of you - hairline isn't the best, but it's not bad, you venture it's all the sweat from working under that car which isn't doing him much favours, he's not an ugly guy - he could stand to clean himself though, he's as bout as rough as his scratchy, Southern voice makes him sound.

 

He sounds a bit like Lorelai, only if Lorelai was a tweaker or smoked a fifty-pack a day.

 

"Can I help you?" he asks bluntly, with no beating around the bush. He notices your appreciative stare but he's mostly hung up on how you sound, and the fact you were a new face. All of his customers knew him, and he knew them - he ran with a gang in his time, the Savage Sons Motorcycle Club. "Brown Beauty," he says, with a low whistle, letting you know exactly what you're in for. 

 

Usually you'd take that as a sign to up and leave, but you're pretty desperate, and you can't figure your day could get any worse than this. It's not exactly the kind of thing that charms your pants off either, but you feel the unwelcome blushing on your face regardless - and reminded yourself that you were taking Coach Negan's advice - so this sort of reception was kind of the aim and that you shouldn't be anxious about it. It was that same feeling that you got when the well-loved sports team playfully hooted at you - that insecure flinch.

 

You violently stomped down on the feeling.

 

_I will not be **that** woman who can't handle her shit._

 

"Yeah, yeah I think you can," you say, coming across to him and kicking the stand out to park your moped temporarily, folding your arms under your chest and this time, quite consciously, pushing your chest up and hoping for a decent price. "See love, um - " you made a show of going on your toes to read his name-tag, ignoring the twitch of his lips in amusement when you did. 

 

"Merle," you corrected "-I'm kind of having a really,  _really_ bad day, and that - " you gestured to the moped "-adorable little shitheap of mine, took a crap on me mid-ride. I'm lucky I pulled in and slowed down when it started stuttering or I'd probably between two roads and scraped off a floor,"  _this day can just not get worse, so please God, cut me some slack here._ "-And I'm hoping you can fix it, because it's kind of my only ride."

 

"That thing?" the man glanced over your shoulder, and started to laugh. Adorable little shitheap was definitely the correct term for it, because it was sickeningly cute - and definitely the dorkiest looking thing to ever be wheeled into Dixon Bros autoshop, that was for sure. It looked massively out of place in the field of Harley Davidsons and Kawasakis, it really did. "-Guess I could take a look. Mopeds are easy enough fixin'," he said with his Southern drawl.

 

"Cant say we get 'em in often though, did someone point you here? We tend to be uh - ah, 'referral only' sort of place," said the man, wiping his hands on a rag. You frowned - that confirmed it, it was definitely a chop-shop, because you didn't know any place that would be willing to be this low on the business radar, they'd be putting out ads everywhere trying to make money unless they didn't want to draw attention to themselves.

 

You took stock of the man - and the guy behind him, probably another Dixon - and put your hands on your hips, falling to your back heel and giving him a strange look, like he'd asked an odd question - because he kind of had.

 

_Kinda old, but not that old._

 

"Uh, maybe in 2008 or something? You guys are on Google Maps now," you deadpanned, before giving him a cautious, small smile, causing Merle to snort unattractively and throw his head back - calling to the other guy.

 

"Y'hear that Daryl? - We're on Google Maps now, apparently," - the guy didn't respond, but he looked up at you and stared, before silently heading for your moped, giving it a curious look since in truth, they really didn't get them very often. Ever, really. "Lucky us, I guess," he said with a smirk. He was blatantly staring down your outfit at your breasts, but that being the aim, you didn't really react, and just hoped this would pay off. You found yourself itching for a cigarette, and reached to find yourself on your last one, and sighed, slipping it back into your large bag, ignoring the look you got.

 

"Can you give it a look or not?" you said haplessly, running your hand through your hair out of habit. "-It's kinda my only ride and I'm... really, really fucked," you swore bluntly. It felt like these were the kinds of guys that didn't care about that sort of thing, in fact, they seemed like the American flavour of the kind of guys you knew all too well. 

 

"No problem darlin', Daryl - get the book, we'll see where we can....fit her in," he smiled - and ordinarily it would have irked you, but this was good, it was what you aimed for. The key now was keeping the camaraderie going, you could let them keep thinking you were a hapless foreigner - but they might try to fuck you around with the price, or, you could at least try to get on good terms with them. What if your moped broke down again in the future? It's not like you had the greatest insurance for the bloody thing and you got it secondhand anyway.

 

"You got it," he said, you noticed the other brother had much longer hair, and was a bit on the stockier side - like he was healthier or something with a voice that sounded a bit less worse for wear, whereas this "Merle" guy seemed a bit more strung out, in a way you couldn't quite pinpoint. 

 

"So, if I had to take a guess - you guys are about as local as me - hmmmm.... I want to say.... Georgia? You sound like my roomie, so, I'm gonna guess that," you said, trying to ignore the fact that your stomach felt like a toxic vat and the bag on your shoulder weighed heavily with a damning amount of knowledge.

 

"I'm starting to hear the difference, took me long enough," you added, while the man smiled at you - it was an unnerving sort of one, like he was undressing you with his stare, but he wasn't actually too creepy - oddly enough. He just seemed like a "Guy's guy," sort. You knew the sort.

 

"North Georgia, you guess right," he said shortly, and quite stereotypically deadpans back to you "London?" - because your accent had him by the hook.

 

"Nah, love. Cheshire," you said curtly "-like I can afford some fancy bullshit London life, I drive that thing," you scoffed - pointing at the moped and getting a chuckle out of him. So, he was proving to be something of a pig in terms of general demeanour, but considering you strutted into the place with your tits out, you weren't overly surprised or jarred by it.

 

"Point taken," he smirked, only for the camaraderie to break when the younger one - whose probably only in his early 40s, he can't be older than coach, if you had to do a mental comparison, he shouts over and just says the words "Cops," - and you roll your eyes the moment the rag in Merle's hand is dropped and Daryl quickly moves into the office.

 

Jesus, what a bunch of clowns, or maybe you were just too good at spotting criminal enterprise and were holding these average Joe rednecks to a high standard.

 

"Officer Friendly?" calls out Merle, only for Daryl to shake his head.

 

"Nah, his pet dog."

 

You frown, the petnames make it seem like they're familiar with the police which, again, doesn't surprise you - but it seems like God is having the last laugh, and for all your wishing for your day to not get worse - it just asked for the opposite to happen. IT was going to get worse, because a very familiar police cruiser pulled up, with an all too familiar face in it. You didn't even bother holding in your groan, rolling your eyes and causing Merle to look at you oddly as you folded your arms over your chest again in an impatient gesture.

 

"Because my day just  _had_ to get worse, right? This is the universe having a real jolly laugh at my expense, possibly yours too," you sighed, ignoring the look of confusion as Deputy Sheriff Shane Walsh's voice oozed over you, detecting the fact you were none too pleased to see him.

 

"Gee, I'm glad to see you too," he replies, before frowning and watching you pivot on your heel to stare at him, and take one step back so you're standing directly across from Merle - he glances at your attire once, but then keeps his eyes focused on you. Another person follows - one of his colleagues from the McDonalds, you vaguely recognise from his hideous comb-over.

 

"What're you doing here in a place like this? You shouldn't be here," he frowned, and you gave him a put out sort of look.

 

Today was really not your day and you were fully ready to take it out on the deputy, and - rather vindictively, in front of the coworkers (or one, anyway) that he'd been too embarrassed to bring you around.

 

"Uh, getting my moped fixed? Not that it's like, any of your business," you replied sweetly "-this is an autoshop, after all,"

 

Shane frowned, glancing at Merle and then at you - he would have made small talk about your new moped crapping out this soon, but as of that moment, he just wanted to get you far away from the Dixon brothers, preferably in his cruiser, and driven safely back to campus. Merle was a guy with several priors, a violent history, a racist, misogynistic, redneck pig and his little brother Daryl was only marginally less worse in the fact that he at least, hadn't been caught selling fucking meth.

 

"It's a drug front, so you should probably go wait in the cruiser," 

 

He watched as you were completely nonplussed by his remark, and instead, scoffed - he really didn't know a thing about you, did he? Did he really think you strolled into this place thinking it was above board and totally legit? You could tell it was at least shifty just from the outside and so the fact it was a drug front didn't surprise you at all. Usually you'd be adverse to a place like this just based on how hard you were trying to keep yourself separate from your cousin's world but, this moped repair was going on the books, you weren't interested in drugs, and so any business here - even if they investigated it to high heaven, wasn't going to come back on you, and you knew it.

 

These places had to do a certain amount of legitimate business just to keep on board and also to get the relevant small business subsidies, it was also, with the new information in mind, probably a laundering front too - and you were quite simply one of the additions under "legitimate business."

 

"Uh, actually. I have Pathology in like, an hour and a half, and I really have to get this sorted out, so, unless it's a problem, I'm gonna stay here until you're done," you said simply. "I won't obstruct your search or whatever - unless you're the kinda guy who can't do it with a lady watching," you rolled your eyes and ignored the derisive snort it got from Merle. "And not that I know anything about American law outside of forensics, but uh, can I ask why the sudden search?"

 

"Yeah, you need a warrant, asshole," sneered Merle, his light demeanour giving way instantly for a telltale temper.

 

"Actually, I don't. Not when you have a list of priors longer than my arm," said Shane smoothly "-probable cause, and I thought I'd pay you a visit after the DEA made a friendly little call about Blue Sky turning up in Richmond - and, well, you're the guy."

 

"Priors count as probable cause in this country?" you butted in, giving him a sceptical look "So much for that 'land of the free' shit, huh? How long is this gonna take because I got places to be, things to do," 

 

"He's on probation," said Shane shortly "-which is why you should probably go and wait in my cruiser and I can get you back to campus,"

 

You raised your brow and continued to act like a stubborn mule. Yes, this was potentially a drugs bust, and yes, usually you'd want to be nowhere near but you had a  _very_ bad day, thrown up a  _very_ expensive mocha and on top of that, your only mode of transport had broken down, and the day previous, your best friend gets high and snogs you and makes everything fucked up and weird. It wasn't a good week and possibly the worst time to run into Deputy Shane Walsh, and you didn't spare him your cheeky, acidic tongue, which is something he noticed from the moment you stormed out of his car when you realised he never intended anything even remotely respectable with you.

 

"Love, the only time I'm ever willingly getting in a car with  _you_ ever again, is if I'm under arrest," you said sweetly, causing his partnering officer to look between the pair of you curiously. "And spending an awkward forty to fifty minutes in your car in silence is really not pencilled in anywhere on my schedule, I'll get an uber, y'know. Like the rest of the world."

 

"You'd really rather pay for a taxi then get in the car?" Shane scoffed, shaking his head "-Fine, be like that. Alright, Merle - you know how this goes. Position - Martinez, search the premises,"

 

You frowned as you felt something heavy in your bag as Merle put a casual but loose - none-too-intrusive arm around you in a casual way, sensing the fact it pissed off the deputy when he did it, and that the two of you clearly had history. You did your very best to assume a position of not being surprised or highly unnerved, and God - he better not have dropped in your bag what you think he fucking did. 

 

"Really? In front of the lady? Alright," he let you go and turned around leaning forward on the car he'd been under prior, with his arms shoulder-width apart as Shane began to search every one of his grimy pockets. Daryl got a similar treatment, and this 'Martinez' guy seemed to be looking through the property rather thoroughly for a one-man job. 

 

You couldn't resist getting a jibe in.

 

"Wow, guess all I had to do to get you to touch me like that was say I had drugs on me, huh?" you smirked, ignoring the fact your heart was pounding with nervousness.

 

_What the fuck did you drop in my bag, redneck? I swear to God you better not have..._

 

"I don't frisk for drugs on the first date," Shane shot back, before giving Merle a dry look "-Guess that means we've went out a fair deal."

 

"I'd be happier if I never laid eyes on you ever again," Merle drawled, standing upright when Shane found nothing, he didn't seem offended by the banter - which at least, was something he had going for him, out of all of the shitty qualities Merle Dixon had, the guy was nothing if not a laugh.

 

"Wow, I guess he has that effect on all the girls," you chortled, making Merle look at you.

 

"You callin' me a girl?"

 

"Maybe, dude. I don't know what you do on weekends, ain't for me to judge," you responded - and usually, it would have pissed Merle off, but it was so out of left field that he found himself snorting, because he was definitely the furthest thing from feminine, in fact, he found himself so masculine that it was hard to perceive it as anything but the most ridiculous kind of joke.

 

"Alright, you're clean," said Shane, before glancing at Merle's clothes. "Figuratively speaking, anyway."

 

 "You sure you don't want a ride?" he turned to you, only for Merle who, with the dire need to piss off Shane personally, resumed speaking in his greasier tone from earlier.

 

"We can sort her out for one, it's what she came for, right?" 

 

Shit, a guy way older than Shane was willing to flirt with you just to piss him off, and that twitch in his face did make this all a bit more worth it.

 

"Yeah, I'm sure I can find a good fit here somewhere, I think it's clear we both know I like them with a few more miles on the clock," you watched as Shane pulled a face of mild disgust, but he could tell you were doing it just to piss him off, and shook his head in exasperation, this was going to be a weird discussion in the cruiser with Martinez - that was for sure.

 

"Good luck with that," the tangible annoyance wheedled into his tone, the search took all of an hour - and you were probably going to be late, but you didn't care. You just waited for Martinez and Shane to clear up, watching them turn the place inside out with an unimpressed frown as they came up empty. You didn't bother looking at the expressions on the faces of the Dixon brothers all through your exchanges with the deputy, they were filled with insinuations, suggestiveness and a sharp, acidic underlying insulting tone that told them both that Shane was not, in fact, your favourite person.

 

Only when the sound of the cruiser peeling away from the shop was heard, did Merle turn to you bluntly, looking you over up and down in response to the last thing you'd said.

 

"So, did you two fuck or what?"

 

If you were drinking something, you would have choked, instead, you just spluttered slightly before scoffing.

 

"In his dreams maybe, it was one date and it went...very badly, and now it's super awkward whenever he turns up anywhere," you rolled your eyes. "-I don't really care about whatever it is you're doing here, laundering, selling, chop-shop jobs, none my fucking business at all, I just want you to fix my ride, but uh,"

 

You cleared your throat.

 

"What the fuck did you put in my bag?" you said, taking it off your shoulder and opening it, causing Merle to bare down on you and almost pull it completely out of your hands until you recovered the item yourself. It was a small baggie - the kind you'd see sewn into the inside of an old coat, for keeping your extra buttons in if one broke. Only, this had anything except buttons in it.

 

"Oh, fuck me," you swore, holding it up to the light and having Merle yank it out of your hand almost violently. "You are joking me right?" flinching and taking a few steps back from him warily, like a cat with their hackles up, glancing between the two and agitation bleeding onto your features. It's not like they could do anything to you - Shane spotted you here so, if something did happen, he'd be down here like a shot and with that in mind, you felt at least a little less nervous.

 

It looked like rock candy, but it wasn't candy. It was meth, pure and simple.

 

"You put fucking meth in my--? Probation. Fine. I get it, but... fucking hell you can't just...plant drugs on someone!" you snapped, running your fingers through your hair "-what if he decided to search me too? Fucking... you were a goddamn cunt hair away from fucking myself, or yourself over," 

 

Merle waved it off, though the depths of your potty mouth did surprise him.

 

"Easy there Brown Beauty, it worked out, didn't it? Anyway, consider it a favour. I'll give you a good price on your moped, hell if it's just the belt that needs replacing, I'll even do it for free," said the man lazily, which surprised Daryl, but then again, your impromptu flirting and insulting had distracted Shane enough that he could drop that ounce of meth in your bag, and stopped his big brother going back to jail.

 

"You gonna be cool?" he said, a dangerous sort of undertone in his voice as he asked, you ignored the pounding in your chest - the fucking  _rush -_ and gave him an unimpressed look.

 

"Blue Sky huh?" you said, ignoring his question, so that's what they called it in this neck of the woods. "Well shit me, that's the stuff of legends," you snorted, oh yeah, this day was getting surreal.

 

Oh yeah, you heard about this - back in Cheshire. A friend's older brother, affectionately dubbed "Meth Seth," back in England - his parents took him on holiday to see his family back in Romania, and he came back raving about "the blue stuff" - of course, nobody believed him, but a few Google searches proved that it was real. And you had some. In your fucking bag.

 

Meth Seth would have shit himself.

 

"Damn, I never thought I'd get to see any," you shook your head "-it's a meth fairy legend back home," you explained at Merle and Daryl's odd looks your way, and the urgent looks they gave each other didn't go amiss by you. This was one of those calm down and diffuse scenarios, so you slid into the role fairly easily. It was not your first time dealing with, uh, dealers - just your first time with redneck American ones, but they were businessmen which meant they could at least be reasoned with. In theory, anyway.

 

"Guys, I really don't care what you're doing here, I don't. You do you, whatever to get by, I'm cool," you said, raising your hands up in a surrendering gesture "-if I wasn't, I'd have just told Shane when I felt you drop it in my bag and he'd have believed it was never mine to begin with, you're the one with the priors, love."

 

It was surprisingly Daryl who believed you first.

 

"She's cool, I think," he nodded once at you. "Thanks for not being a narc."

 

You shrugged.

 

"Risking being arrested or uh, questioned by my failed date is not really on my agenda - it would have been an excuse to put me in his cruiser anyway and I kind of am having a really, really bad day. Week. Month - whatever - and... shit," you sighed, running your fingers through your hair, ignoring the ache in your stomach from the fact it had emptied itself and was massively hungry which you'd just been ignoring out of pure stress.

 

"Didn't need to end it with a ride in a cop car, just tell me whatcha need. I'm paying cash," you said shortly as Daryl caught his faculties first and brought a book over which was used to keep track of all the legitimate business. You didn't take either of them to be the book keeping type, and saw many names scrawled into it, and wondered when they'd actually find time for you, but it seemed that you had landed a good enough impression that it'd be fine.

 

"Cash is king, no complaints here," said Merle easily, most of the customers preferred that, unsurprisingly, he just didn't expect it from a dorky college student with an adorable-stupid moped. You scrawled in your main number - it was legit business after all, and the burner phone you'd brought remained mostly untouched, you'd make the call outside, then get your Uber back to campus, simple.

 

You tempted the question in your mind, I mean, Merle could know - if he was dealing on the side, about the Scopolamine, right?

 

_Stay away from the John Doe._

 

Ugh, it was a stupid and risky question, and you didn't have that sort of trust with him, and immediately quashed it. You had your own shit to deal with, and for someone who just had legendary meth dropped into their handbag mid police search, Merle and Daryl thought you were remarkably calm, especially for someone who, sans the rather sexy front showing, you were formally dressed and definitely a lot more refined than the pair of them put together, even the way you spoke reeked of an education even if you were familiar with the slums. 

 

"You're a lot calmer about this than most non-clients," said Merle after a moment. You resisted the urge to snort - is that what he called junkies? Clients? "Unless I can interest you in some of our other wares,"

 

"We have drug dealers back in England too," you said shortly "-only they tend to be a bit more....," you frowned - remembering Javeed and grimacing visibly, trailing off. How do you sum up Javeed? 

 

"Impolite, and uh, I don't really partake in meth," pot maybe, and pills sometimes, but meth? Nah, meth was a whole different ball game and you didn't consider yourself much of an active drug user even if you fit the definition, it is not something you felt defined you, not at all.

 

"Well, I've been a called lot, but not polite," said Merle with a short, gruff laugh.

 

Yeah, you could believe that.

 

"In comparison to the kid who deals pot on my council estate back home, I assure you, you're practically a black-tie gentleman," you said, causing him to chuckle in amusement at your arid, dry tones - it wasn't the kind of humour he was used to, but he found himself rather enjoying it, and mostly because you'd used it to stick it Deputy Dickhead - as Merle affectionately referred to him.

 

"Well, I'm not a kid," he smirked "-I play the big leagues,"

 

_More miles on the clock, clearly._

 

"Clearly," was all you said in a tone that he wasn't sure was agreement or sarcasm, but you smiled at him, and any bubbling agitation at the potential cheek died down at the reassurance of it being a joke as you glanced down at your phone and began to call for your Uber to meet you and take you back to camp, and it'd take about ten minutes to get there, but that could be ten minutes where you go and smoke your last cigarette and ignore the fact that your stomach was hungry. 

 

"Anyway, I hate to love you and leave you but I'm gonna go wait for my ride," you said, putting your bag onto your shoulder and ignoring the rush of your heart racing.

 

_Why are we doing this here?_

 

_Because it's illegal._

 

You ignored the familiarity of the rush, finding yourself a bit too close to Merle as you handed him the pen that you scrawled your contact information in, and not wanting to get oil slicks on your clothes, you didn't press into him - you weren't sure you'd have had the courage anyway, but folded your arms under your chest in the telltale flirtatious gesture, which, you didn't usually consciously notice - but it was not to this time with the air hitting your bare flesh, you didn't bother calling out his piercingly blue stare, and just gave him a dark, serious look.

 

"But I'm gonna go ahead and ask that when I come to pick her up," gesturing to your moped with a tilt of your head. "-that you don't put meth samples in my bag,"

 

You felt your voice lower an octave, you didn't want to come across as threatening this guy - threatening dealers generally wasn't smart, but he had to know that some things were not okay, and this definitely fit that description.

 

" _Ever."_

 

It was almost a purr, but not quite, you ended it with a small smile even though you didn't really feel like smiling - it was to reiterate a "no hard feelings," sort of thing - even if you were reeling internally and wondering if you'd need a pacemaker, you tilted your head a little and for a moment, the tension was quite unbearable, because you were matching Merle's stare for intensity quite easily.

 

"Scout's honour," said Merle after a moment, breaking the tension and smiling, only for yours to drop in return, and for Merle to feel what it was like to be stared out like you were trying to peel off all of his layers. Your mind unwillingly jolted you to the gymnasium, before everything went back to hell in hand-basket.

 

You remembered someone saying that about Trevor Matthews, and you found yourself suddenly quite critical of the mechanic.

 

Looking at Merle, he might have been the kind of guy that got high off of his own supply. In comparison with Daryl, who was admittedly the more attractive of the pair, and the youngest, you could tell that Merle was at least, not the kind of guy whose body was a stranger to the perils of hard narcotics.

 

"Oh, love," you scoffed, looking up and down with a critical sort of stare as you turned away from him, glancing back over your shoulder on your way "-as if you were ever a scout." and simply leaving, your last statement still hanging in that lower octave that had Merle leaning up against his car in confusion, exhaling slowly.

 

Yeah, he was never a scout - he was easily too bad for it and their shithead of a father never would have supported that sort of thing, everything the Dixon brothers knew could put a scout to shame, and they learned it all themselves. You took one look, and easily got their measure, but somehow, Merle didn't find himself insulted. Not one bit. He supposed he was a little bit charmed.

 

He nearly got busted, narrowly avoided it, and had his most friendly interaction with the deputy sheriff he'd ever had. They were usually a lot more volatile, and highly unpleasant.

 

"She was pretty hot for a darkie," was the first thing Merle said, typically - who was trying to figure out whether or not he was just flirted with, while Daryl shook his head, and silently began working on his moped, pausing only to tell Merle that he should be a whole hell of a lot more careful.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

You got back to campus and found yourself sitting in the empty gymnasium with a frown, hands wrapped around your stomach. You texted Lizzie to meet you, it wasn't good to leave things like they were last night, and you needed her to know that your freak out wasn't anything personal. The empty gymnasium was easily a lot less intimate than a dorm room, and so it was rather perfect to try and sit and talk this out. You didn't even bother to clean yourself up after your trip to the mechanics - what a fucking mess. You met Trevor, got the details, you had an ounce of blue meth dropped on you, you met Shane after you thought you'd never have to meet him ever again, and just...fuck.

 

Fuck.

 

"Hey Skylight," the airy voice washed over you as you stared up vacantly at the gymnasium ceiling, sitting in the bleachers.

 

"Skylight?" you asked, glancing away from it to look at Lizzie as she took up a place next to you.

 

"I notice you like to sit in the middle where you can see it best when the crash mats are out. It's pretty - I like how the sun splits through it and breaks across the floor," said Lizzie, as though she was reading your thoughts.

 

Yeah, that's why you liked it too. You two always were on the same wavelength.

 

"So I thought Skylight is a nice name for you," she turned to you "-it's pretty," she said, while gesturing vaguely to your state of dress with her eyes, you resisted the urge to react visibly. It didn't feel as innocent as it usually did with the fact she had glommed on your face while she was high, even if it had just been a drug thing and nothing conscious or serious.

 

"I'm - I''m glad you texted. I thought you were still mad at me," said Lizzie quietly.

 

You were silent for a while - were you mad at Lizzie? Mad seemed to be too vehement, you were disappointed? Yeah, that felt a bit more right, because you wanted to trust her in the moment and her kissing on you just felt so wrong, like a complete betrayal of that, so yeah, maybe that was the right word.

 

"Forget the kiss," you said bluntly after a moment, closing your eyes and feeling your stomach knot up and pain from how empty it was, and how sick you'd been feeling. "I need my friend back,"

 

Lizzie's response threw you for a loop.

 

"You can have your friend back and kiss them sometimes too," - whatever you expected from her, it wasn't that. Instead, you just looked at her oddly. The truth was, you didn't actually factor in any of Lizzie Samuels's personal confusion, you didn't ask yourself if she was unsure of herself, if it had been an experiment, if it had been turmoil, or if it had been all the drugs - or if she was simply lonely. You thought it might be her misreading friendship because she wasn't used to having it and forgave it as something rather innocent about her, that she didn't know better in some strange way.

 

You could have believed it.

 

"I don't... I don't really - it didn't feel right," you sighed "-and I just, we were very high - and that's not what I want to talk to you about."

 

"We aren't high now," she said softly "-it doesn't have to be a big deal, but - I mean, not being high would be the time to see if it was really right,"

 

You sighed, okay - so Lizzie Samuels was clearly confused, and she wasn't swimming in female suitors, and you were burdened with very, very heavy knowledge - and a long, drug-bust filled day. You really needed Lizzie to be your friend right now, but it seemed that wouldn't happen until she got this out of her system.

 

"Fine, whatever," you said bitterly, closing your eyes. "If that's what it takes."

 

Lizzie was unlike anybody else you'd ever had - she was innocent, and gentle. Her hands landed on your biceps but they never squeezed, her nose bumped yours in a way that showed you that she wasn't very experienced at all until she tilted her head at all. You didn't feel anything - you felt dead, like when you put your lips on Trevor, there was none of that electricity that had been at the theatre. There was none of that hot, heart-pounding impulse-excitement that had come from making out in Shane's cruiser, nor was it anything close to as exciting as flirting with that fucking ancient meth head mechanic.

 

That said, it wasn't bad, you just found yourself frustrated when she finished.

 

"There, now can we finally talk? Am I out of your system yet?"

 

Lizzie just looked equally confused, and you pinched the bridge of your nose in irritation, the temptation to spill your guts waning and waning with how difficult your best friendship was becoming.

 

"I um, I don't really know," 

 

You sighed, okay, she's confused - clearly. But you aren't. You like whoever you like and you don't really fancy Lizzie even if she is quite pretty, you don't like her  _like that -_ but she's like a fumbling newborn when it came to a lot of the social aspects of college, so you run your hands through your hair in frustration, agitation oozing into your tone. 

 

"For the love of --- if you're that hung up on it then don't grab me and kiss me like I'm your fucking nan, you're not going to find out if you like girls or not doing it that way, Jesus Christ -- " you sank your hands into her shoulders and your sudden aggression threw her for a total loop. You didn't feel any of that charge you knew that you had when you made out with people you liked - but the aggression was present, along with a faked sense of agency, robbing the breath out of her lungs and refusing to treat her soft lips kindly.

 

You could feel her whimpering and melting, even if it wasn't doing much for you, it was for her, and with that - you let her go, seeing her lip had swollen slightly from the kind of force you exerted, her pale skin completely flush as you caught your own breath, you realised she was staring at you, but mostly in confusion.

 

"You're crying," she said after a long moment, and wondered if she was that bad to kiss that she could make someone cry.

 

"Because," you said thickly "-I don't  _feel_ anything - I haven't felt anything for weeks, and I just wan-- I just wanted to talk, but clearly, you've got your own shit to deal with," you said, feeling your words hiccup as that dangerous urge to cry and give into the anxiety you'd had all day since Trevor gave you the names began to bubble to the surface.

 

"And I can't tell Lorelai or she'll probably want a new roommate, and I - God, it's so fucked--"

 

Lizzie surprised you - she went for your mouth, as though she might be able to impart some of the euphoria she was feeling on you, but you didn't jerk back, you just sat there dumbly, letting her kiss you clumsily. You forced your body to respond, doing just enough that she at least didn't feel like she was kissing a corpse, but still.

 

"Maybe if you tried this a few weeks earlier, maybe," you said bitterly, moving your neck to your right shoulder limply, feeling her very shyly go for your cheek and so you silently began accommodating her, moving yourself with an almost doll-like rigor.

 

 "What was different a few weeks ago?" Lizzie asked softly, pulling away from you. "We're still friends, you can still tell me things,"

 

The urge to tell her went out like a fire that had been pissed on, you just sat there numbly, wishing you felt anything at all - fuck, you'd even settle for disgust, just not this overwhelming disappointment and sadness.

 

"Just do what you want," you breathed, feeling her lips move further down your cheek to your jaw, very shyly heading for your neck, like you might suddenly push her away violently like you did that day in her room.

 

Then your voice cracked as she hit the neck, and it made her pull back with force.

 

"Everybody else does anyway."

 

There was a silence between you two, before Lizzie frowned and put her feelings to one side, laying her hands out flat on her lap and looking at you in a strange sort of concern, despite how heavily flush her face was, and yours too - though not to nearly the same degree. 

 

"Actually, could you just go? I don't.... I don't really feel like being tried on for an experiment," at how mean that sounded, you instantly regretted it, softening your cracking tones and wiping your eyes aggressively on the back of your hand. "Shit, I didn't mean it to sound like that. I mean just - fuck, you're confused and I'm.. I've got shit, and I don't... want us like that. So you should just... "

 

You closed your eyes again, burying your head in your hands.

 

"You should go to labs and I'll see you whenever I see you."

 

You didn't dare raise your head up from your hands until you heard the bleachers creak and the sound of Lizzie's feet hit the wooden floor, squeaking on the way out. You weren't really sure how long you'd been that way, but eventually, you heard a loud creek that forced you to raise your head up from your hands slowly. You weren't crying - you put an end to the emotions that had escaped the firm cork you had put on the bottle, because once the genie was out - there was no putting it back in, and frankly, you weren't ready to deal with a mental breakdown, nor were you equipped to handle Lizzie Samuels and her confusion.

 

You didn't turn to look at the source - your eyes still closed, and your voice tired as all hell.

 

"Do I need to leave?"

 

Cadets might need the hall and not want people watching, or something, but instead, a familiar low, oddly charming voice washed over you, making you groan internally.

 

"Nah, I don't actually have an opposition to hot lesbians making out in my gym,"

 

Fucking fuck, that was Coach Negan, and of course he saw. Because of course he did. The universe kept on laughing at you, it seemed. You lifted your head out of your hands to give him your most unamused expression, and you were very pleased with the fact that you hadn't let yourself cry enough to swell your eyes overmuch or otherwise give away that you had, sans the fact he probably saw the initial tears if he had just been standing around, watching like a creep, or silently packing things away and doing that creepy silent-as-a-predator walk of his which had scared the piss out of you in the car park.

 

"It's complicated," you said flatly, glaring into his dark, coal-like stare as he smirked at you, until his eyes fell on your hand, which was gripping your rolled up sleeve with a familiar sort of anxiety. When you weren't able to grab something else to take your mind off of it, you usually found some other way of hurting yourself and it didn't seem like you thought about it much. He noticed nail indentations in your arms before, but he didn't really see fit to comment on it, but now he could see you squeezing your arm without really realising you were.

 

"Yeah I sorta gathered," Coach Negan snorted. "Anyway, came to ask about progress. Trevor cleared out like a fucking shot so I thought you might have already started the ball rolling,"

 

Shit, was he really going to discuss this here?

 

You glanced at your bag, and then released your arm, revealing the tender skin had been made red and sore, and that you were doing it again, but further down. Some people wrung their hands out of nerves - but it seemed that you were a lot more forceful with it, enough to bruise without really considering that you were.

 

"Trevor got me a picture and description I recognise. I know who it is. It will be dealt with shortly."

 

You had, after all, brought a burner phone specifically for this purpose, but the ominousness of your words served to do nothing but intrigue him.

 

"Relax, it's nobody on any of the sports teams," you said shortly, which did, admittedly, give Coach Negan a vague sense of relief that he didn't even know he was looking for, but welcomed it all the same. It felt kind of weird to have him sitting across from you like this - like he was your peer, in Lizzie's spot, it felt awkwardly intimate again, not as badly as when you were in his car, but vaguely similar.

 

"Good," said Coach Negan simply, because if they were, they'd fucking regret it.

 

"Now you know who it is, have you changed your mind about anything?"

 

Yeah, his offer about going with you to the police - you recalled, looking at him with a tired and somewhat shattered stare, shoulders slumping. If anything, who it was just confirmed that you absolutely couldn't - but you couldn't just tell him that, and get him more involved.

 

"No, and for your safety I think you shouldn't ask me about it anymore,"

 

Coach Negan raised a brow, now there was a new one - somebody concerned about his safety, a tiny little science nerd no less! He almost laughed, but barely held the urge in, he found himself rather hard to scare and he had to admit, much of it was his ego, but he was simply a big dude, and he struggled to imagine himself getting so easily hoisted away and hurt the way you had been. He was a lot harder take down, but yes, a lot of it was ego, and part of him did feel quite untouchable, and if you asked him about any fight he'd ever had, he could proudly tell you he'd never lost a single one.

 

"That's a fuckin' new one," he snorted "-my safety. Yeah, don't worry shortstop. I'm a hard one to take down,"

 

You shook your head, it was bigger than him - and everyone, but you didn't want to have to tell him that, and involve him more. You still felt Lizzie's lips on your skin - where her absolute confusion as to her identity or at the very least, liking you, was so stark compared to what you wanted to unload, that you'd been utterly rendered silent, and that was why you caved and told her to do whatever she wanted.

 

Your problems shouldn't be anyone else's. Your shoulders could barely bare the weight, and you didn't want to test others to see if their's could - lest they couldn't.

 

It was that simple. Less people, less endangerment.

 

"You say that," you scoffed "-and I want to believe you,"

 

He watched as you curled in on yourself, drawing your knees up to your chest as you sat in the bleachers, somehow managing to look even smaller than you were, especially dwarfed next to him - Trevor's words flash in Coach Negan's mind, before he can stop it.

 

_She's so small, Coach. Funsize, and tiny. She has to jump in heels just to kiss me._

 

Somehow it just made the crimes against you feel that much worse. Trevor was right - you were small, and small things, generally speaking, should be protected and wow what a shitty job he'd managed to do of that. 

 

"-because it'd be really nice if I could, it'd be nice if I had at least one person in the world I could trust with this here at VMA, but I don't. If it put someone else in danger, I don't think I'd forgive myself," and in truth, you didn't know if it would. You knew exactly who'd hurt you, and where roughly they'd be, but you didn't know how far their reach was. You thought you knew them, you'd never would have guessed who it was in a million fucking years which is why Trevor's confession sounded so outlandish, but it was true. You believed him. You believed that he wasn't lying with all of your heart and after finding out Eichmann's omissions, which started this whole mess, you could believe it was two people from the Science Institute.

 

Coach can tell you're halfway to a breakdown, but you're teetering, like you're close to spilling your guts. He's intuitive like that, and considering this is all that's been on his mind besides the match against VSU, his next words throw you, but they're oddly planned, at least, by him.

 

"Wanna go somewhere and talk?" it's sudden as fuck, but you don't react.

 

It seemed to be agreed between you two that discussing this matter in college was a no-no, if either of you could help it, and so you nodded, frowning in confusion as you followed him out of the bleachers. It didn't feel right, discussing this intimate thing in a room where it all echoed, but to be honest, you expected him to unlock the admin office and talk there.

 

You didn't expect him to walk you to the car lot, and open the passenger-side of his Volvo opposite the driver seat. You stood there, still confused, before deciding to crawl into the front. Ordinarily, this might have set off alarm bells, but the fact was, you did actually trust the guy, even if he was on the mean side, he'd proven he was trustworthy on more than one occasion.

 

There was that strange sense of safeness overriding the strangeness when the door shut, and the dashboard lit up as he popped his key into the ignition.

 

"Clearly you wanna talk or you wouldn't have summoned your space-case friend, didn't look like you two got much talking done though," he smirked, fixing his overhead mirror as you ignored his jabs, instead, stretching the belt over your chest and ignoring the sound your stomach made too.

 

Unfortunately, Negan didn't, and rolled his eyes.

 

"Okay, diner it is,"

 

You frowned, and glanced out of the window as he started to pull out of the car lot, you weren't really sure you felt like eating anything, or eating ever again to be fair. You didn't even summon up the will to go to Pathology and walk into the Science Institute after what happened, somehow, the idea of doing that was worse than being caught with a baggie of meth.

 

What a fucking week.

 

The drive was however, strangely calming. The evening roads were busy, but you found the mild traffic to be strangely relaxing, while Coach Negan seemed narrowly agitated by it, you just sighed, leaning back into his comfortable leather seating. Custom job, probably, because it was nicer than most 2002 Volvo's - you realised numbly. This whole scenario is weird - being in Coach's car, but it isn't like you had your moped at the moment, and you had to admit, it felt more comforting being in here than sobbing in the admin office of the Sports Hub then doing that bloodshot-eyed walk to Unilocks.

 

It was still weird as fuck, but no weirder than having fantasy-meth dropped into your bag, you supposed.

 

"Why are you getting involved? You don't have to anymore, your part is done," you said, there - the question that was bothering you. Coach Negan was a hardass who'd made grown-ass men cry their eyes out like they were little girls, he was a mean, tough son of a bitch - ask anybody who trained under him.

 

Coach Negan licked his lips, glancing at you briefly before pulling out of traffic, drumming his fingers against the wheel - you wished he'd put on the radio or something, it might make this car ride feel less ominous and awkward.

 

"I wanna see justice happen," he said, and for some reason - it almost gave you a chill. "I didn't exactly leave our last fuckin' chat feeling great," he revealed.

 

Your brows furrowed, and so you turned onto your shoulder, staring at him as the seat belt dug into you a little more as you did, but his eyes remained focused steadily on the road.

 

"I'm sorry you're involved in this," you settle on, and all he does is give you a mindless 'mhm' in response, focusing on a roundabout turn and getting ready to pull into a parking lot for a place called Edgar's Diner. There's a total of maybe four cars in the lot, as most people are at work, but the diner is 24 hours, according to the neon sign, and it looked a lot like something pulled from one of your movie classics, complete with a waitress going table to table with a gigantic jug of coffee - not really something you saw much in England.

 

You're not sure you can eat and say as much, only for your stomach to make a pained noise in response, and for him to give you a put-out sort of look that you're not sure you've ever seen on him before. He didn't strike you as a visually expressive guy, even though when he spoke, he tended to do it with his entire body, you're not sure if you've ever seen that look on his face before.

 

"Okay," he said, resolutely, undoing his belt and taking his key out of the ignition, switching the entire car off and turning to face you in the same way you were gazing at him. Apparently, during his largely silent drive, he'd taken that moment to sit and think carefully about prising you open, being that he was hardly the most sensitive man in the world.

 

"How about this," he says "-whatever you tell me, I won't react. I won't do a damn fucking thing unless you want me to, I might tell  _you_ what you should do next, but me?" he holds up a hand "-I ain't about inconveniencing myself if I don't have to. So, lets call it... shit... customer confidentiality,"

 

You gave him an odd look.

 

"I used to Personal Train for a bit," he said shortly - but with his attitude, that career didn't exactly take off, and you snort - the idea of him being a personal trainer is something you could picture but God, you couldn't imagine him keeping a client for longer than a week, not with his persona.

 

"Okay, Pretend-Personal-Trainer," you said, rolling your eyes. "Customer confidentiality - I'm going to hold you to that,"

 

* * *

 

 

 

What transpired next, Coach Negan didn't really see it coming. He expected you to be explaining it, but instead, you were swinging the large handbag onto your lap and were opening it aggressively, before taking out a folded sheet of paper, your phone, a secondary phone which raised his curiosity, and then you laid it all on your lap, silently unfolding the paper and opening it to reveal it had several photos printed in colour, focusing on the same person. Without context, it would have been sort of creepy, but with context - it looked like some serious detective work.

 

"Trevor went through the Facebook event and it's nobody who formally registered interest or checked in, but he grabbed these, before the photos started getting taken down to abide by VMA rules," you said.

 

Coach Negan was, thankfully, quiet - but he did take the paper and look critically at the photos, feeling a creeping sense of vague recognition, but he couldn't pinpoint where or how, they must just be people who mill around campus a lot, or maybe it was knowing for sure they were a VMA student that gave him that eery feeling. 

 

"He gave me a description of the other one, I know who they are," you said, turning your head and staring blankly into Edgar's Diner. 

 

"Remember that intern list I told you about?" he notices your voice is a little higher than usual, you're struggling to keep it in, and he hopes you can keep it clinical, because he doesn't know what to do if you start crying and there's a strong chance that you might, probably should, and honestly, deserve to.

 

"It was the fucking PhDs I'm working under!" you said, feeling yourself start to laugh - because it was funny, in a really dark sort of way. You remembered saying how you just attracted bad people, and it made you laugh harder, enough that even the coach was looking at you strangely as you threw your head back and found yourself almost laughing into hysteria as a warm, slick sensation started making its way down both of your cheeks.

 

It was, in a sick way, rather hilarious to you.

 

"Call the police," Coach Negan says - his voice, dark and grave, only for you to laugh harder, and he scowls - because clearly he's not in on the joke, or you're having a mental breakdown in his car. Probably both. 

 

"I - fucking - WISH!" you swallowed, feeling your throat actually dry up from how hard you were laughing, which was definitely a new sensation, you weren't sure your body had ever done that before. "-Oh, fuck me, should it be that fucking easy!"

 

He wondered briefly that, because this was off the books and off of college property, if he should give you a hard slap to pull you back into reality, but thankfully, your laughter starts to wane, and it's pure sobbing, he realises - a little late into the game - you're actually, properly, crying and he doesn't really know what to do with himself, except be reminded how small and helpless you really were. At the heart of it all, you were just a Freshman, who didn't deserve any of what had happened, but it happened anyway, because the world was cruel, and it hurt people who didn't deserve to be hurt.

 

"Why not?" even Coach Negan is a bit shocked with how patient he is, because inside, he's anxious and _very_ impatient but not showing it.

 

Your laughter stops like a vinyl record screeching, and your lips quiver - the swelling of your eyes makes them look even more doe-like than usual and for a split-second he has the misplaced thought that if you asked him to empty his wallet out, he might have done it in a heartbeat. He's not sure anybody has ever given him that kind of look, it's hopeless and hopeful at the same time, desperate, even.

 

" _If I tell you, it has to be a forever-secret,_ " your voice is an octave lower and he swore if you did that any closer to his ear, he might have gotten some goosebumps.

 

He raises a brow at the terminology, as it again, reminds him of the massive age-gap between the pair of you, and highlighted how desperately you were looking for a responsible adult to trust - and _holy fuck,_  Coach Negan realised - he was about to be that responsible fucking adult.

 

Christ.

 

"Customer confidentiality," he reiterates "-or a forever-secret. What, you gonna make me fucking pinkie-swear? Is that where we're at?"

 

He's trying to make light of it, to lessen the tension brought about from a fairly obvious psychotic break, but instead, you stick your pinkie up, and smile back at him hopelessly, and if not for the doe-look which could probably tempt Jesus to sin if you asked him to, he wouldn't have done it. Coach Negan rolled his eyes, and dwarfed your hand easily - feeling fucking stupid while doing it, but shit, if that's what it took to follow that sliver of conscience that he had, he'd do it. He was not a man of compromise, not at all.

 

"Wow, it's like I'm in kindergarten all fuckin' over again," he deadpanned, even his pinkie finger was long, thick and dwarfed your much more feminine one, wrapping it easily. You don't respond to the humour, you instead, pull his finger close and lean forward, even though you don't need to, because the car is very private. It just emphasises even more that this is a secret which Coach Negan absolutely has to keep and the consequences of him not doing so are unfathomable.

 

"The John Doe I was working on," you say quietly, looking at him with an unblinking, severe stare, made more-so by your eyes which were now ringed with red, chest heaving still from how heavily upset you clearly were. "-The one I told you about?"

 

Coach Negan nods once, captured by your utter oddness, not breathing a word and silencing his jokes.

 

"We found a hidden toxicology report about a rare drug on his eyelashes. Scopolamine - Google it, but basically - blow it into someone's face, for a precious few moments, they're a drooling, helpless child. You can make them do anything,  _anything -_ it's like mind control but...worse. It doesn't show up on most reports unless you're fucking  _good_ at what you do. Our department is, and---" you sucked in a sharp breath "-the PhDs and their boss, my boss - Dr Eichmann, head of the autopsy, omitted it from his report. He probably would have omitted the bit of brain too if I didn't kick up a stink. Then I get a threat,"

 

You closed your eyes, but surprised yourself when your voice didn't crack again.

 

"Then I get drugged and raped, and then," you open your eyes and look at Coach Negan's lap, where the sheet of paper with the photos was.

 

"I find out it's Eichmann's PhDS - they're - they're corrupt, I mean fuck, what else is it? It's not a mistake. They're covering things up, submitting omitted autopsies, like a _fucking_ rare Colombian export that's harder to get your hands on than a Faberge egg - anything, it's bigger than me. It's - I don't know how big it is. I'm going to make some calls about it, but fuck, I can't go to the cops with it. Forgot how I even found out - illegally! I might fucking add, I shouldn't have seen those omissions at all, I just---"

 

You let go of his little finger and put both hands into your lap, slowly lurching as you sighed heavily.

 

"I don't know how much danger I'm in, but it could be a lot," you cried out - leaving the man in utter silence.

 

For once, he had nothing to say. Not immediately anyway. No joke. No wisecrack.

 

"Trevor said they acted like thugs, I could hardly believe it but then I remembered how much Eichmann is hiding and then it all made fucking sense," you choked out, wiping your eyes on the back of your hand with a heavy sniffle. If Coach Negan was honest, it sounded like something involving organised crime, and that you'd already paid the price, you were probably safe for now, but it wasn't right - letting people get away with rape like that, and you were their fucking intern? Fucking fuck. It was so fucked. Monsters - the lot of them, he thought, scornfully.

 

"I didn't tell Trevor, I didn't want him to know it's connected, he doesn't even know about the original threat. Just you - and the university."

 

"That was smart," Coach Negan said after a moment "-Trevor's not equipped to handle this kinda shit, he's weak."

 

You didn't bristle at his harshness, it was true, Trevor Matthews was weak. What makes you flinch is when he makes a grab for a random phone on your lap - but luck has him picking up your burner phone, holding it up to your face, it seems he made a choice and like always - it seemed Coach Negan had advice. Thank God, because you were fucking lost - beyond calling your cousins and giving them the names of the PhDs and maybe Eichmann, you didn't know what else you could do.

 

"Here's what you do," he said, in a low, gravelly tone that held all of your attention. "You call the police, anonymously. Tell them about that drug - if it's as rare as you fuckin' say - and you sound like you know your shit, they will try to track it down as a clue about your murdered dead guy. Yeah? With any luck, they'll track it to the people Eichmann and his assholes are involved with. You, meanwhile, need to keep goin' business-as-fuckin-usual, okay?"

 

You nodded numbly.

 

"You can't tip off these assholes that you know it was them, or you might put yourself in more danger, got it? Then make those calls, sort it out. Keep me posted, just don't let anything slip. Can you do that?"

 

You exhaled, and nodded, before chewing down on your lip in that way that you did - and made a motion for his large shoulder, pressing your face against it. He didn't flinch, and it wasn't too personal, but it felt awkward to have you crying across from him and not do anything, so he just sat there, frowning as you put your face into his arm the way you had when you were drunk. That was a safe movement to do - because you'd already done it before.

 

"Yeah, thanks Coach - you... you always know what to do," you sniffled, and as he had his tracksuit on, it felt less personal burrowing against the bicep of it, feeling the material rub and shuffle audibly as you did - it was way less personal than his shirt underneath, or his bare arm. 

 

"Thank you for being someone I can actually trust." Shit, there it was in black and white, he transcended from Cool Teacher - to Cool Trusted Teacher, and if not for how dark and severe the situation was, he'd be feeling strangely honoured.

 

He didn't shove you off him either, he just let you do it - it wasn't much to ask for, and it was impersonal enough that it was okay, but even if it wasn't, he doesn't think he'd have stopped it.

 

"My only crime was doing the right thing," you mumbled helplessly into his arm, wishing to God you never found that piece of brain, because that's what started this all, and looking back on the memory, you hated how proud of yourself you'd been. Fuck you for being a good Mort Sci student, right?

 

"This is why I don't make a fuckin' habit of that," Coach Negan quipped, feeling your tears soak through into his shirt and a bit of his arms. "Shit," he sighed - you really were just a kid, an adult - but... there was only so much someone could handle and clearly you were reaching some kind of a limit here.

 

"You really are just a fuckin' student," he shook his head, his college years were his golden years, never had they been quite this bad. "-you shouldn't have to be fuckin' dealing with this. But - I'm kinda impressed you are, I mean, Trevor wouldn't fucking manage, I know that much."

 

He's trying to be comforting, but he's not very good at it, he realises - but fuck - doesn't he deserve credit for trying? Oh well, he can at least let you soak his arm with tears, and resist the urge to move, or make this a more intimate gesture - the last thing he needs to do is pull you in and make this  _weird -_ because it was odd enough as it was.

 

"Seriously, down to brass tacks, you've got some huge, goddamn lady-balls on you," he said, making you unfurl from his arm and look up at him, looking at him in confusion. "I don't know that many people who would be able to stomach it, but here you are," he held up your phone, a strangely knowing look in his eyes.

 

"With a burner phone, ready to get into some serious shit,"

 

You lean back and grimace at the dark wet patch on his arm, but he doesn't care - he doesn't even look at it, you just wonder how he concluded it was a burner phone so quickly.

 

"You mentioned family, you know a lot about drugs, you come from a shit area, you're threatened and make an ominous threat using your family and you buy a second phone to call them - not rocket science," Coach Negan smirked, dropping it onto your lap crudely and watching as you tried to pull yourself together, he noticed more bruises on your arms, but ignores them as the sleeves roll down.

 

"It takes three sim-cards, I can destroy them as I go and ring from out of VMA whenever I need to, then destroy the cheap Chinese phone later if I want," you shrugged "-all you need to find someone is the closest cell tower and a bit of trig, it's how cops track people,"

 

Coach Negan chuckled, not bothering to hide the fact he was impressed, oh yeah - clearly you knew your shit.

 

"You said a legal and above-board way of ruining their lives, if I recall,"

 

You shrank at his words, and you shrugged, looking away from him with a sniffle.

 

"All I'm doing is making a call, but um, calling my cousins isn't something you generally want on record anywhere. They're... the right people, for this. I don't... I mean, making a phone call is legal. I'm not lying," is all you say, and to be fair, you aren't wrong - so Coach Negan's stare turns appreciative.

 

He's fucking enthralled with what you're involved in, it's terrifying, but he's enthralled.

 

"Who the _fuck_ are you, girlie?" he repeats, that question from earlier - only with a newfound appreciation as he does and you can detect it in his voice. You search his body and face for fear, judgement, confusion, disgust - all of the things a normal person would feel knowing that you were about to make a potentially endangering call on someone, and were involved potentially in something big, scary and organised.

 

Coach Negan was highly abnormal, you realised.

 

"Why aren't you scared?" you breathed back, retorting with a frown, but he grins at you in a way that makes you want to shiver for a reason you can't quite pinpoint.

 

"Very few fucking things in this world frighten me, girlie."

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Price Tag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter in terms of things that actually happen, I got more deadlines - but hey! More Negan in this! He's digging the danger the Reader presents, so he's taken it upon himself to insert himself in your life. Enjoy :)

 

 

He knew the two of you spent an hour in the car, most of it was letting what was revealed get digested, after all of that news was dropped - you cried. You cried a lot, and he felt it soaking through his tracksuit into his arm but all it did was serve to remind him that he probably should have been warmer, he just struggled with the barometer of what was appropriate. Usually he wouldn't care but he wanted to pretend that he was at least still being a staff member, even if he was far outside of the boundaries of that now. Coach Negan had to wonder what happened to "appropriate" when you were being tortured by your own university department, your scholarship being both your greatest thing and a sword of Damocles - waiting to fall if you pushed your luck too much doesn't help, and very possible, tangible criminal leanings.

 

He meant it when he said he wasn't scared of anything you had to offer, he wasn't so much a thrill-seeker as someone who was pragmatic, but Coach Negan was a man who would sway to his whims, and this was definitely a whim going awry. The fact was, you were exciting - you presented a sense of danger now, but also, a strange intrigue that could fill this massive intervening void he had between coaching a sports team and going back to his empty apartment, or thinking about his unsellable house.

 

Your already notable eyes have swollen now, they're red-ringed and your head must hurt like a bitch - Coach Negan realises, so he pops the glove-box near your legs, and takes out a pair of dark aviators.

 

"You let it all out?" he asks, quietly - watching as your chest heaved and remembers that your buttons are undone from that sexy little tryst with space-case. Oh yeah, as dirty and creepy as it made him sound, it was pretty hot - and he did hang in the doorway and watch, only to hear the miserable exchange as it happened. It was hard not to - with the echoes.

 

"Uh, yeah. I think so," you choked out, wiping your eyes on your hand a little sheepishly.

 

"That - " he hears you clear your throat out, like you're trying to put yourself back together after falling apart. "-That was a little....mortifying. I sort of....commandeered your shoulder,"

 

You're trying to make a joke about it now, the stuff is all put back in your bag between your legs, but it doesn't seem like you really are anywhere close to put together. The idea of you being embarrassed though - well, Coach Negan can get that, it's embarrassing to cry in front of people, and  _on_ them, especially when you don't know them so well, but the idea of it, well...shit. Trevor Matthews cried in his office for what Coach Negan judged as a whole lot less and if anybody had a reason to cry it was you, it was just strangely honouring that it was here, and not with Lizzie, or the mentioned roommate - Lorelai.

 

There's truly nowhere for you to go, and Coach knows that he's safe to you, someone has to be. Your mother is on the other side of the world, you have nothing and nobody except for vaguely hinted, dangerous family members and it's not fair that you should lose everything after suffering at Fi Kappa Sci's party for simply doing the right thing.

 

"They're pretty good shoulders," Coach Negan said, smirking a bit and slipping into his casual braggadocio with ease. "-I can spare at least one to cry on. Seriously, don't break a sweat. It's cool. It's fine. This is some heavy shit,"

 

You shrugged at his attempt to comfort you - you were a shrugger, a lip-biter and a self-harmer. He wondered how many other little cues he was going to pick up on.

 

"In fact, I'm a little surprised you didn't cry sooner, God knows you have more than enough fuckin' reasons to," he said, his tone amiable "-I mean shit, it's kind of what you'd expect, crying in a dark room, throwing a pillow at your parents when they try to come in, that kinda thing,"

 

You managed a tired snort, shaking your head.

 

"I didn't have the luxury of teenage tantrums as a kid and I don't let myself have them now, though I did have nights where I'd sit on my bed crying and reading Anne Rice," you admitted, trying to force out a small smile, but it feels broken on your face and looks it too.

 

Now that was a curious choice of terminology, 'didn't let' - it sounds like you didn't let yourself do a lot of things, and with a bit of armchair psychology from Coach Negan's end, could be why your arms were in the state that they were in and why you suddenly turned cold and clinical as a way of dealing with things, that, and maybe the pills in your bag, but they were probably prescribed - for what, he didn't know. He could probably guess at least one of them is anxiety, because fuck do you have more than enough reasons to be anxious.

 

"Pop those on before we head inside, and maybe button up - I don't really mind either way," said Coach Negan with a smirk "-but this is a Mom&Pop sorta place and you still look mauled by your space-case friend,"

 

"Shit," you cursed, cheeks flushing as you shakily began buttoning up "-No, it's - it wasn't Lizzie, I just - I had to drop the moped off at the autoshop and I took your advice."

 

Now that made Coach Negan's ego swell a bit, it felt good knowing he had that sort of effect on someone - maybe it was a control thing, he wasn't sure, but it definitely boosted his ego. It seems kind of wrong though - talking casually like this, but it was either that, or cry some more.

 

"It worked, like it always does," you said shortly, closing your eyes "-that's a story and a half on its own, so much that I don't even know you'd believe it."

 

Coach Negan gives you this odd look, because you did that thing again where you drew him in with intrigue and left it hanging, but the car feels awkward after you stop crying, because you're not leaning on him anymore. In truth, what should have happened is that you should have cried, and he should have stretched his enormous arm out and comforted you, pulled you in properly, and filled in the position that Trevor Matthews left like a gaping, sore, ripped-open and salted wound. He just didn't know how safe it was to do that, to blur that line where he'd end up becoming a friend instead of a confidant. It was something to think about.

 

Suddenly, mid-buttoning, you lurch over, clutching at your waist and wincing - and when you lean back, your stomach makes a god-awful noise and he can't help but look at you strangely, and hope you weren't going to be sick in his car or something.

 

"It's fine, I'm fine, I just - ugh," you winced "-I threw up the only thing I ate today and my stomach is....mad at me," you said lamely.

 

Coach Negan frowned, and thought about all the times he saw you eat, and then how you seemed like you really didn't when he crossed you in the cafeteria during your period of utter avoidance, in fact, the only time he was sure you cleared everything in front of you was when you were completely trashed and probably the alcohol helping you polish the plate to abate the grease craving.

 

"Alright, shit. Get out, we're going inside," it seemed that one look at your pallor was enough and he didn't care if you wanted to curl up in his car and keep on breaking, he took the key out, opened the door and walked around to your side and almost pulled you out entirely if not for you warbling to your feet.

 

It was all rather sudden, but it seemed Coach Negan had some concerns of his own. The ground felt shaky under your feet but your feet barely felt it - it was that strange, gliding sort of thing you were feeling by being held up by the large man, it wasn't quite so dire as when you'd been drunk, and had no coordination, but he guided you, he kept you at his side and snaked his arm around you. You being as small as you were, it settled easily around your upper back and your shoulder in a way that was at least, casual enough that it didn't feel too strange.

 

He opened the large door with his other hand and swept you to the closest booth. The inside of Edgar's Diner was pure and classic, the seats were red, the tables a neat, lacquered wood with classic red and white checkered dining table cloths on each one, and the floors were a beautiful, crystal white and pitch black, like a chessboard. It sounded mismatching but put together, it was lovely, and retro in a way you couldn't quite define.

 

Hell, if you didn't feel like death, you'd have probably have adored the place.

 

Coach dropped you in a booth, glancing at the aviators on you - if you could carry yourself the way you had in the gas station, you would have turned the heads of the few in the room, he had no doubt about it. Hell, you still managed to turn one of few and you were shattered, but the way your heels clicked along that floor and that long, dark hair of yours - it immediately got you both the waitress's attention too.

 

"Here's what's going down," said Coach Negan, in a more forceful tone that you expected - like when he pretty much frogmarched you out of the Volvo, you frowned behind the aviators as he picked up one of four menus laid flat against the table. "You're upset, and going through a lot. I get that, but you haven't been eating clearly,"

 

You were silent as the Coach gave you what felt like a verbal dressing down.

 

"You're going to sit here and fucking eat everything that's put in front of you, and so help you fucking God if you throw it up, I'll sit you back down here, and order it over again, and we keep going, rinse and repeat," at your confused expression which, yes, he could sense even behind the limitless black of the aviators. The sudden aggressiveness about your food habits threw you for a loop - maybe he was doing it to distract from everything that just transpired in the Volvo, you weren't sure, one thing which was becoming apparent to you however was that you did not have Coach Negan's measure at all. You couldn't predict him one bit, and if he was to be your trusted confidant, you should probably work to change that. You liked to know all the cards you had in your hand and the coach was admittedly, a wild one, and so long as he was involved in this (even passingly) - you had to be able to predict his moves.

 

So far, you couldn't. You really didn't know anything about him besides "Jock."

 

"Coach, why're you doing this?" you asked quietly, and he sighs, sliding the menu under your nose and leaning in. "I don't understand what's happening here,"

 

"Because my team captain dropped the ball," said Coach Negan flatly, referencing Trevor Matthews "-because he dropped the ball so fucking hard that ten minutes ago you told me the people who fucked you up were the people you worked your ass off to intern under, and you literally did nothing fucking wrong, but Matthews did  _nothing._ In fact, he goes ahead and makes it fuckin' worse like the genius he is, now, I get that he did you a solid today, but that's about the least he could have done, fucking considering!"

 

You flinch at how aggressively damning he is of Trevor, it seems that when he brands someone a traitor or otherwise beneath him, he takes a hard-line stance and sticks with it. You didn't even consider for a second that Coach Negan might have some transferred guilt on the matter, he just didn't seem the type. Maybe it was an excuse to be nice, but who needs an excuse for that? Why not just be nice?

 

 _Maybe being a hardass is important to him,_ you mused, and if he was the jock sort his whole life, it could be all that he knows.

 

"In fact, after what you told me, I don't understand how you're not angrier at him, you don't seem like you are," he said shortly "-because how it looks from the outside is," he drummed his large fingers against the tablecloth "-is that something unforgivably disgusting was done to you, and you went for answers, and instead - he humiliates you because it's the easier thing for the coward to do. Knowing the facts, it doesn't help his case - not to me," said Coach Negan, rolling his shoulders back with an audible click before undoing his tracksuit so he could lay the jacket on the chair, revealing the toned, thick muscles that flexed as he spoke with his hands, and his body.

 

"It just makes it look so much fucking worse, and you know, for the record - I'm pretty sure he liked you more than most the other pieces I've seen hanging off his arm before, and that's how he treats you?" he scoffs "-take it from an older guy, fuck that and good riddance,"

 

Now that was damning.

 

"He's just scared," you mumbled, wrapping your arms around your stomach as you felt a painful pang settle in it and you didn't know if it was from the lack of food or choice of conversation. He can see you don't have this vehement disgust at the boy's weakness, you're just a bit slumped and resigned with it all, and so he takes a less angry tone, frowning at you.

 

"And weren't you?" he said, a lot softer now - making you do that shrug of yours which he'd grown to become a bit annoyed by, because it was your way of cutting out of actually having to respond, but he doesn't need a decoder ring to figure it out, of course you'd been scared, you cried it out in the car when you said you didn't know how much danger you were in, your tone reeked of it.

 

"Back to the task at hand," he taps the menu that he slid to you, drawing your attention to it as you sniffle and hold your head in one hand - showing him you'd cried yourself into a headache.

 

"You're ordering a main," he said decisively, getting another frown from you "-that's not a suggestion by the way, it's what you're getting,"

 

You wondered where exactly Coach Negan got off telling you what to do, but you realised that you tended to ask him quite often and shouldn't be that annoyed when he's doing it without prompting, it's not like he's doing it to be a dick either, it was probably because he was a coach and didn't know how to turn it down a notch, or again, it might be all he knows - or all that he's comfortable with, you realise. Because this is quite strange, a forty year old and a twenty year old sitting across from each other, though nobody is really looking at you two like it's as strange as it feels.

 

Both of you are actually quite the fit in public - you worked together, in the same way that you hanging off Trevor did, only this makes Coach Negan look like admittedly, quite the suave man, pulling someone much younger. The thought doesn't cross your mind, but it crosses his, just because Coach Negan is always aware of the world around him and what the aura is that he gives off.

 

"Why?" you breath out in quiet, continued confusion.

 

"Because you don't eat," he repeated "-and because, as your 'pretend' Personal Trainer, considering that Lowes is off on sick-leave for the foreseeable future - and how much energy you exerted at the last boxing session, you clearly need the calories. I have the schedules for women's boxing now, meets are twice a week, aren't they? That's twice a week when you're expending way more than you're putting in, you're in a high pressure environment, your work load is--- probably massive,"

 

"Definitely massive," you mumble.

 

"-and you're probably one of the best up and comers on that team, not that it says much because it's fucking women's sports, but you're a big fish in a small pond and it fucking shows. So - yeah, you're getting a main, trust me. I know my shit," he said with a wise nod "-and you're staying on that team, because it's now, more fucking apparent than ever, that you need to know how to defend yourself. Properly, I mean," he said. He punctuates his statement with heavy tones, and the last bit is driven home hard with the severity of his stare, enough that you actually sank a little in the booth.

 

You don't really feel like eating after crying so much, but your stomach needs it, and it's clear Coach Negan isn't going to let this go.

 

"You sound less like a pretend personal trainer and more like a real one," you mumble, trying to make the air lighter, but he just continues to look at you severely - but his expression shifts as an idea hits him.

 

"Well shit, why not?" he said, glancing down at his own menu casually. "I'd have a reason to pull you aside for updates on all this bullshit going on without having to corner you at the end of the day. I mean shit, I don't mind you hanging around my gym, it's open and all, but maybe, with all this," he makes a blasé hand gesture as though to encapsulate the whole world into what he defined as your 'problems' "-going on, we can have a schedule going. It's not going to be easy - you're going to be around those fucking jackholes who beat up on Matthews," 

 

_And hurt you._

 

You however, were surprised that Coach Negan found it so concerning that you would be around the PhDs, the truth was - you wouldn't be drinking or eating near them ever again, and you had taken the advice to go get a defence kit once you got the go-ahead from the Student Wellbeing Officer, and shadowing Mattius instead of Eichmann and his crew. So, in theory, there was less to worry about in terms of face to face interaction but it'd still be a factor - but....

 

_Coach Negan doesn't actually know you, or what you're capable of, or what your threshold is. He should know, it's not fair to make him worry. Would he worry? This is him worrying, clearly, but showing it in that weird I'm-A-Jock-Guy-Who-Represses-Emotions-And-Convey-Them-In-a-Limited-Manner type thing. Cut him some slack._

 

"And fucked me," you said bluntly, watching as he didn't react, but his face twitched slightly - like he was fighting an expression of displeasure in favour of being utterly blank. "Coach,"

 

You lean in, and this gets his attention, because so far you've been slumpy and dejected looking, and this is you engaging him properly - with your body language.

 

"If you're worried about that, you can dial it down. I'm shadowing Professor Mattius and not Eichmann, and when I'm interning - Lizzie's with me while I shadow, and I'm on a different body now anyway - one with an ID and no active case. Jonah Millican, shitty death, but good to work with learning-wise," frankly, Coach Negan didn't even know how you even had space in your mind to be thinking about the impact of this on your education, and he's a bit impressed, if a bit confused by how you manage to deal with your priorities in such a clinical fashion even as your world burns around you.

 

"I won't drink or eat near the PhDs or be left alone with them if I can avoid it, and uhm - " you cleared your throat a little "-I've got some experience, I mean, I spent the better part of my life having to work and actually live with people who've done their fair share of horrible things to me and if I can get through that, I can get through this. I think," you added, frowning and realising you skipped Pathology today because you couldn't even deal with the Science Institute in the wake of the great reveal as to who hurt you that night.

 

You don't elaborate, and as much as he wants to ask, the waitress is finally here to take an order, and you grudgingly get some honey-glazed chicken, but sit in horror as the coach adds a pile of sides to the order - dearly hoping they're all for him and not for you. Coach Negan has some burger that is affectionately called 'The Heart Attack' - which sounded filling enough on its own - and the woman just leaves you alone, detecting the odd air between you two.

 

This is weird, even weirder when you swap numbers with your main phone, because it wouldn't be practical to schedule your fake PT sessions through email, student emails got flooded a lot and considering these PT sessions were a cover to talk about the ongoing drama and feel less like you two were being awkward and inappropriate, texting might be better. 

 

"I can't imagine it's going to be great for you, maybe you should warn space-case too, since she's around them a lot," Coach Negan says after the waitress walks away. You frowned - you didn't really think of that, you'd have to make sure Lizzie was safe regardless of where your friendship now stood.

 

"Yeah," you mumble, finding yourself staring aimlessly at the salt and pepper shakers because looking at Coach Negan through the aviators feels unnecessary when he can't see the focus of your eyes, it's kind of hard to look at him when he's being nice, you realised - because he has a face that you find too hard to read. There's that unpredictable something about him which makes this uncomfortable to you - not in a bad way, just a unfamiliar one. You're safe with him, you know that much, because he had the opportunity to take advantage of you when you'd been drunk and rolling into his arm in his car, he had a chance to hurt you in some way, but he didn't.

 

He did also keep you away from Ethan Palgrave, which you did Google, and stumbled across the gory details of the case which had fallen into the public eye - it had been quite the scandal, apparently.

 

You feel awkward, though - because it's so strange to you that he's doing all this, you're not used to eating in nice places and it was hardly a five star restaurant, but you're used to greasy little hole-in-the-wall places with broken signs and ambiguous names like "Chicken King" that couldn't even afford to brand their name onto their takeout boxes and would have things like "Hot Excellent!" scrawled on them with a non-logo piece of clip-art.

 

Sitting across from Coach Negan, this was a high step up, and he noticed you had taken a rather defensive sort of pose, with your arms wrapped around each other and your hair falling down one shoulder, he's reminded of when he picked you up at The Roach, when your hair is curled and falls over one eye - it's a good look for you. Mysterious. Like all of the crap that he discovered you being involved in, it was like you came from a completely different world from him and not just because you were English.

 

If only you weren't reeling from a breakdown, this might have been a nicer outing - but then it wouldn't have happened at all. 

 

"I know you probably don't feel like it, but pull out those massive fucking lady-balls of yours, yeah?" his tone is, again, strangely gentle. "-You've got to... you've got to keep yourself on top fucking form, if you want to keep up appearances, and keep performing well, you've  **got** to take better care of yourself, fucking eat. And God - get some rest, do you fucking sleep? I mean, be real with me, do you? Because you've never looked like you have," he said with a frown. "I can't train you if you barely function, and I get it now - I get why, but you gotta make some fuckin' changes,"

 

You looked at him in surprise, you assumed his PT thing was just a follow-up on the "customer confidentiality" gag and giving a name to these talks and outings so they felt less weird, and so you had a reason to swap numbers.

 

"You're actually going to train me?" you ask, hoarsely, and he nods.

 

"Personal protection, remember? Two boxing meets a week isn't ideal, and you've got some strength, I saw it - you don't wanna lose that and let yourself fucking...."  there's no good word for how you are, so he just says it "-crumble."

 

It's a harsh truth, but Coach Negan is good at delivering those.

 

"So in light of all your bullshit, I've decided I won't let you," and then the trays of food began to arrive, causing your eyes to widen considerably "-it's that simple, but you avoided my question, about the sleep," - shit, he was smart for a jock, that was something else to take into account too, he's like -  _really -_ smart, intuitive at the very least. He notices little cues and details, just like you do - like with your old stress fracture, for instance.

 

Was it really that simple? You wondered how much of it would be personal protection training or outings like this - then how you'd fit it all around your job shifts and maintain your status in the top percentile, it was lucky you had some natural gifts, and that you took your textbooks with you to the laundromat, but production of coursework was often all done in one to three sittings, it meant you were highly put upon, then boxing meets, then Lorelai trying to drag you out and now this impossible amount of upheaval. It's no wonder you're emptying your guts out, and not sleeping.

 

The reminder does serve to tell you that you need to take your medicine with your food though, and a painkiller might help the headache, so you reach into your bag and even though you don't take anything out but just the rattling noises and the sound of an air-tight lid or two coming open and when you look up - he's frowning.

 

"I have little helpers for that, so I do, just not as much as I should, maybe a solid five hours? I sleep too much or not enough, but if I sleep too much it's because I'm taking more than I'm supposed to," you said shortly, causing him to shake his head - you needed at least eight, and five was a joke, the only thing he could say was that it was better than four but it explained why your eyes looked so incredibly haunted all of the time, weighted by sleepless nights.

 

"And on that note - what're you taking?" he asks sharply, making you flinch. Was it really any of his business? Not really, but you were both straying so far out of what was his official business that you weren't surprised he had to gall to ask, but, Coach Negan also has a fallback for asking - adding "If I'm going to train you, I need to know what's going in your body,".

 

Now that made sense, he did also just lecture you in a rather responsible manner too about taking care of yourself, so this was a natural followup to that, but his phrasing did leave you a little awkward. You frowned, before taking out the little bottles and stacking them next to the salt and pepper shakers. Coach Negan didn't expect you to be this up front, but it seemed like you were truly exhausted with having to hide things, and so given an opportunity to not have to do that anymore, you took it.

 

"You're really serious about this, aren't you, Coach?" you said with a frown - for an idea that may have been something he decided on a whim in the car, he was taking it quite seriously.

 

"You're in some serious shit, so you deserve for somebody else to be taking it seriously," he said, his large hand moving slowly to the bottle that was closest to him, he didn't pick it up, but he turned it until he could read the label. He realised it was the first time seeing your last name, but yes, it was at least - prescription stuff that you were popping under the skylight so often.

 

Lets see, what was he looking at? 500mg of Zoloft - that, he at least knew from TV commercials was an antidepressant, but shit, that was a high dosage for someone your age, but he realised quite quickly they were  _all_ high dosages for most the part, there was - shit, there was the anxiety one, Xanax, then one he didn't recognise - and a strong painkiller that could probably take out his quarterback just from the dosage. Hell, it'd probably put Coach Negan's own ass straight to bed if he was honest, but not you. Clearly, not you. Then the little helpers you mentioned - Rozerem, to sleep.

 

"Fucking Hell, they have you on the whole pharmacy, don't they?" he's scowling, but he doesn't know what Yasmin pills are, you're blunt - considering he apparently needs to know what's going on in your body "-kinda high doses too," you wondered if Coach Negan thought you were a freak, for being on so many things. You're searching his face for judgement, but mostly he just seems confused, looking over each translucent bottle with a little frown, then at you, like he's trying to see past your skin into what it's actually doing to you.

 

"Yasmin is birth control," you closed your eyes and sighed, inhaling the sweet smell of the sesame seed honey-glazed chicken "-the week I'm not on it, I get incredibly... bad, so - painkillers. It's uh, pretty bad. I just power through it for most the part, and high doses are because I have high tolerance. It's in my notes, apparently, from England - I don't know how it all works down here. I just know the doctor's are a bit tablet-happy prescription wise,"

 

"Gotcha," said Coach, somehow not betraying any awkwardness as he put down the Yasmin bottle and you slipped them into your bag, bottle by bottle, and setting the bag to the booth chair to make more room for the food. God, it was a disgusting amount of food to you.

 

Your body was a toxic vat and you were just a train-wreck that he couldn't stop watching, the more he learns - the worse it is, you're like Ophelia drowning, every time you open your mouth, more water fills you and brings you closer and closer to rock bottom. You're drowning, and Coach Negan can finally see it for what it is, now that you've told him the truth.

 

"Doesn't all this make you sick sometimes?" he said, truly curious, and you shrugged that annoying shrug of yours, only for him to pick up the fork and jam the handle side into your closest hand, making you frown as you looked out at the array of food, cringing when the waitress brought more.

 

It was, in a word, immense. The burger on Coach Negan's plate almost takes up half of it, and it's huge, triple stacked with melted American cheese (or is that just regular cheese, here?) until it's drooling down the side of the patties with large cuts of tomato being the only thing close to a veggie you can see in it, though you don't doubt for a second that there's lettuce hiding under all that, it only looks edible in comparison to the man's large hands, where it finally seems to scale. Big guy - big diet, you supposed, though none of this felt "healthy" per se and you say as much to break the awkwardness of your pill-reveal.

 

"Calories - plus, you're eating the best kind of meat possible - and," you stared in mounting horror behind the aviator sunglasses as he picked up his side of sweet potato fries, and poured slightly over half onto the space left on your plate. Oh God - no, he was really, actually doing this? For real?

 

"Uh, C-Coach, I don't think..." you mumbled quietly, only to wilt under the severity of his stare.

 

"The cost of getting me involved is doing what I say," there's an air of smugness in his tone, and he knows just what to say to get you to do what he wants. He's that kind of a coach, he knows how to get into people's heads - and make them do what he wants them to do, you realised, the moment he uttered that. Everything came with a price-tag attached, and the comfort of coach and having him train you, your outlet that you could actually use to unload the sheer amount stress you were under - it came with a cost. This was apparently the cost, letting him dictate what the schedule was, where you'd be going, what you'd be doing in that time.

 

Considering you were asking him to keep quiet about a drugging, rapes and an assault under his hat - and also omissions and corruptions from your science department which is involved in a million different active police cases every day, being forced to eat some food didn't seem quite so bad.

 

You whimpered anyway, you didn't think you could even clear the chicken, but you were definitely hungry enough to try, and the painkillers helped the head.

 

"None of this looks healthy Mister Personal Trainer," you mumbled.

 

"Hey - skinless chicken is actually the best fuckin' thing you can eat, and those - " he gestured to the hideous amount of sweet potato fries "-are full of the good shit," and he did, also, at least, push a spring vegetable salad ricotta salata your way. "I know what I'm doing, and you're mostly - what, alcohol, pills and coffee?" he scoffed, his tone, naturally abrasive. You cringed at how accurate the statement was, and you didn't even like coffee that much, you just found yourself drinking it out of necessity.

 

"And you?" you said, looking at the burger called "The Heart Attack," on his plate, and he smirked.

 

"I'm a big dude, and it all goes to the muscle, don't worry about me girlie, worry about you," oh yeah, you could uh, you could see that. You didn't say anything after that, poking the chicken with your fork before forcing the first few pieces down - it was delicious admittedly, and your aching, knotted stomach felt like it was undoing itself with each bite, your body telling you that psychotic breakdown or not: you needed fuel. Good fuel. 

 

You felt Coach Negan's eyes on you as you sank down in your booth, you looked even smaller like this - he mused, poking and nursing at the massive meal. You were eating, which was good, but he wasn't a fan of how much you procrastinated over each bite because it had clearly been a while since you'd kept anything down. You took small breaks, but eventually, he found himself tapping the edges of the plates and sides when he thought your eating was not satisfactory, it was a quiet cue to pick something up off of the plate and eat it. You had to say, nobody had ever really bothered this much if you ate before, but it seemed Coach was taking this all very seriously.

 

He's not a fluffy sort of guy, but his actions denote something good about him, it's just hard to put a finger on because he's so abrasive on the outside, abrasive while similarly charming. He charms through his hideous potty mouth - some of the things you heard him say in the gymnasium would be so cruel and catty but similarly funny that you'd catch yourself smiling as you weren't on the receiving end of it. He's an odd one, to be sure.

 

You're further horrified by clearing the plate and some of the fries - most of them anyway, that it's not enough, because he's getting dessert.

 

"You're joking me," you mumbled, only for him to ignore you - and begin reading out the options as though you'd never spoken.

 

Ugh, ass! - the passing thought isn't too vindictive though. This - this probably all comes from a good place anyway, right?

 

"Fuck it, who hates sundaes? Nobody, that's who," and with that, it seems he chose for you when you didn't react to his listing off of desserts, and ordered a massive abomination of a thing, which, looking at it made you turn almost green. It was probably really good, but you were very full and didn't know how to deal with that frosted-glass three tier nightmare. It's a Neapolitan sundae apparently, classic strawberry, chocolate and vanilla, with berry sauce, cream and sprinkles all over it,  With the size of the thing, or maybe from misreading signals - the waitress brought two spoons.

 

It was a good thing too, because you began to whine softly.

 

"Coach," you croaked, one spoon in "-you gotta help, I - you've made me eat more than I've eaten in days, maybe weeks. I can't - Please?"

 

With the aviators on, he can't see the doe-stare that led him to do that stupid fucking pinkie promise, but, the cracking and exhaustion in your voice is enough to convince him to pick up the spoon on his side - that and the sundae looks excellent. Coach Negan takes one bite, and has to admit, it's pretty fucking good.

 

"You're lucky this is one sexy looking sundae," he said, in truth, the fact is you're just very good at begging, and it feels a little off to be making you beg for things after crying heavily in his car. You gave a weak attempt at a laugh, your headache was slowly waning, but there's something about sharing food with someone that's a bit intimate, and for some reason it feels a bit heavier than a twenty-packet box of chicken nuggets from McDonalds. Your stomach feels heavy, and you honestly feel like you've probably eaten enough that you might get a solid six, possibly seven hours tonight, with the tablets in mind.

 

"Thanks," you said - when he did actually help you eat it, you didn't think you could handle more force feeding. You ate the sundae with him in silence, which was fine, it actually was the least awkward part of all of this, because you didn't have to move your head to show you were looking at him as he saw his reflection in the aviators, you just had to sit there and focus on fighting the urge to be ill. It felt like you were saying thanks for more than the food-help though, but he doesn't call you on it. For drinks, he gets a draft beer because he's driving, but doesn't hide his expression when you order out of the "Strong Drinks" section of the menu, and get a tequila based drink - Picante de la Casa, fiery and strong, and you don't even react when you neck it down fairly easily, not even a flinch. The part that causes an argument of sorts is when he calls for the bill.

 

It's unsurprisingly, a big bill - and you've gotten out your wallet to pay or at least pay your half, but Coach Negan's hand physically pushes yours back away from the billing receipt. 

 

"But you paid last time - and this is - this is too much, I can't let you do that," and saying it out loud, it almost felt weird that there was a 'last time' to speak of. Coach Negan ignored you, and continued counting out bills, working out a tip, and laying it flat on the table, before picking up his tracksuit jacket and pulling it up over his tremendous arms. 

 

"Between now and last time, nothing has changed and unless the laundromat offers a pay rise, I still make more than you," he said shortly, before getting up and heading out of the diner.

 

You really struggled to get his mark.

 

* * *

 

 The walk to the car is quiet after that little almost-fight, because it wasn't really a fight if Coach Negan is the one dictating all of the moves. You weren't even really pushing back, because this reeked of the sharp "doing this for your own good" thing that older people often did, and it was kind of nice having somebody do that for you. He probably feels bad, you realised - during your silent mulling over the sundae, because as much of a hardass as he is, he didn't have to do all this, he could have let you pay or not taken you anywhere as nice. it didn't have to be like this, but it was.

 

You made a hesitant move for his wrist when you both got into the car, stopping him short of putting the key back in the ignition.

 

"Wait," your tone is urgent, because you've been thinking about this all through the dessert. He's the safe sounding board, he knows everything that's going on from top to bottom more than anybody else and even then, still not everything. Everything about you, anyway, but that wasn't something you were used to working through. You didn't even know how much to even put out there, so far, he was like a passenger on this ride that you didn't have the brakes for, and that was fine. If Coach Negan asks to know more, you might even tell him, because it's better than telling nobody.

 

All these secrets are killing you.

 

"I hate to ask this," you said quietly, turning your head to look at him as you put the belt across your chest. "But can you drive us somewhere?"

 

He didn't say no straightaway, but he was curious.

 

"Somewhere? Other than campus?" where could you possibly want to go, The Strip? He can't think of anywhere you would want to go, but it turns out you had nowhere to go, and somewhere really did mean "somewhere."

 

"I'm probably just being paranoid but I'd really like to make...  _that call -_ and I don't want to do it on campus, and my moped's in the shop - so it can be anywhere. It probably maybe is just paranoia but - but I don't gamble with maybes, especially when it comes to my cousins. But! I mean, I fully get if you don't want to be anywhere near all this and just want to drive back, I mean it's up to you," he can be as involved as he wants to be, and instantly, he's enthralled by intrigue again. He remembered what you said about cell towers, so it makes sense you don't want to make the call at VMA, but that implies that your family must be really bad news for you to go this far. 

 

_Fucking fascinating._

 

"I can do that," said Coach Negan, before pulling out of Edgar's Diner, glancing at you from the rear-view mirror and realising just how much of the emotions which were previously as easy to read as an open book, were completely blocked by the face-filling sunglasses.

 

He drove in silence, taking you off of the wider roads to much narrower ones, until you realised the only thing you could see were distant cell tower lines and electrical pylons, but no signs of street lamps lighting up the road anymore. It's a bit creepy - you realised, it felt a little bit like the roads leading up to nowhere-towns in horror books, or the kind of place people just get lost in. The only thing that doesn't make it creepy is that you at least have a cell signal, even though the internet connection is dodgy at best.

 

If you were with anybody else, you might have been a bit wary, but in the Volvo, you at least feel safe, watching evening hues settle in over the skies through the windows. 

 

He parked up and the dashboard turned dark as he turned it all off, he turned to you, and watched as you took the burner-phone out of your overlarge bag. Looking in the contacts list, he saw that it was empty, and being that you were willing to do this in front of him, he wagered you didn't really care what he saw. The phone is totally blank - fresh out of the store, clearly, and it actually does have multiple sims - he sees you switching to the second one for an international call, because you actually never know where in the world your cousins are unless you ask for an update through family beforehand, and that information was often time-sensitive, and not useful for long.

 

"This good?"

 

"Perfect,"

 

You know the number by heart, you've learned it. Your mother said if you wrote it down, to get rid of whatever you wrote it down on, so instead, you kept it on a sticky-note, remembered it, then tore it in two and flushed it down the toilet. For Negan, it honestly feels like he's in a movie, and he's driving the getaway car, but it's real enough for you. Real, and scary. He has this smirk on his face, because he cant wipe it off, it's exciting, and it beats watching reruns of old TV shows in his apartment complex on his own. Honestly, that might be another factor to all this, his entire life is at VMA, and this pile of secrets you were sat under presented something else.

 

Hell, he could have stayed in Edgar's Diner all damn day, which is why he was so forward with not letting you move until you cleared the plates, it was for himself as much as it was for you, which was Coach Negan's profile all over. He's still selfish, but even darker, nastier qualities can come in all sorts of deceitful wrappings. 

 

Darkness can be a lot of things, it can be cruel, it can be selfish - it can even be kind.

 

With you, it was kind, or small. Oh yeah, there is definitely a darkness there, how can there not be? There has to be something different about you that makes you the way that you are, firstly you're brilliant enough to get into VMA on the highly coveted golden ticket, and push forward consistently from day one as a top 5% student. If you kept it up for the three years you'd be there, you'd probably graduate summa cum laude and have the scholarship cover your masters as a result. You're bloody brilliant at what you do, he can infer that despite not seeing your work. It's in how you talk, and the fact you got on an intern list this early, and of course, the ringing endorsement of your skills from Lizzie Samuels that day in the cafeteria.

 

You're brilliantly smart, but you're Mort Sci - meaning you're brilliant with  _dead bodies_  and science,further to that, there was that clinical switch you had during the gas station reveal. He kept waiting for you to cry, but it never happened, and clearly you bottled it up for a while today with Trevor giving you the identification of the people who assaulted you, and then.... Even after one long overdue breakdown, you picked yourself up within the space of an hour, and Negan was keenly aware that his idea of comfort was complete shit, all he'd done was sit there while you sobbed into his arm, but for you, it had been enough. Coach Negan was thinking about it for the whole duration of the meal, he just didn't understand you at all, and then there was the burner phone, the thing about the cell towers. Maybe you were a brilliant criminal, or at least, a brilliant criminal mind, and everything he learned today? You're on a toxic slew of medication, and your stress manifests across your arms in the form of nail marks, indentations and fading bruises, but still, you hold it all together. 

 

There's a darkness there and he's dying to see it, so yes, he drives you to where you want to be.

 

You stared at the phone, it was quiet enough in the soundless space that it didn't matter that you held it to your ear, short of plugging in earphones, it was never going to be a private call. Coach is involved, but still - he's surprised that you trust him enough that you hit the "Loudspeaker," button when you do it.

 

"Hello? Raj? Gurpal?" you tried weakly.

 

A loud, thick, Canadian accent answers the phone, he doesn't know what he expected, but it wasn't that. It is, however, nowhere near as friendly as one would think when they think of Canada, it's abrupt, and very to the point.

 

" _Who is this?"_

 

You cleared your throat, and found your fingers locking up nervously, you really didn't like contacting your cousins like this. It always felt so sordid and wrong, but you knew them as those rare fly-ins that would swoop in about once a year back home and when they were there, for once, everything would go right. Your family would have money, your father wouldn't shout at you - he sat in silent terror, and you would be looked after. For once, you'd be respected, and you'd have all the things you wanted even if it was only for a little while. That's who they were to you, the golden tickets, but also - the only other family besides your mother that you could say that you truly loved, even if you didn't love all the darker aspects of what they did. It wasn't anything you understood until your mother pulled you aside as a child and damn near slapped you when you said you wanted to live with them in Canada. She didn't blame you, your home life may as well have been hell but she always tried hard with what little she had, but her words burned in your mind forever when you thought of your cousins.

 

_You like their flash cars and their money, Cookie? They may as well be filling up their petrol tanks with the blood that had to have been spilled for them to have all of the things they have. If you take something from them, it will always come with a cost. Maybe you pay it, or maybe somebody else does, either way - nothing is free. Somebody pays the price and that, Cookie, is why I never accept their money unless I'm truly desperate. You don't want to be like them, baby. Trust me. You don't._

 

But she gave you their number anyway, because sometimes, there were just emergencies and things she couldn't possibly protect you from, it was one of those grudging facts of life.

 

"Um, mum said you would be expecting my call. It's...me," you said lamely, before giving your name in case they forgot, or forgot what you sounded like. Instantly, Coach Negan noticed that their tone took a 180* and shifted to a much warmer one after some rustling, and then, surprisingly, some laughter.

 

 _"It's Raj. You sound so grown-up that I didn't recognise your voice! Yes, she told me to expect you, she said you needed something but didn't know what. Is it money? Are you okay?"_ there's some urgency in his tone too, because he knows you wouldn't be calling if it wasn't desperate, it's definitely familial, like there wasn't whole months and years of slim to no contact.

 

You winced, of course, that's the first thing they'd ask, because with your broke ass family, it was always money and Negan caught the reaction. Your hand moved to the back of your neck awkwardly, like you might be regretting being on loudspeaker now, but Negan didn't react, he just studied your face carefully as you spoke.

 

"Um, no. I don't - I don't need money, I... I actually have a job," you laughed, but it felt forced. Was this even the kind of thing you tell them on the phone? Should you just give names? You'd thought about this long and hard and still had very little in the way of answers.

 

 _"Good girl. You're already a lifetime ahead of your old man, eh?"_ you snorted, and didn't care that the coach could hear you both casually deride your father, he wasn't exactly somebody to be heralded as a good example to anyone any time soon.

 

" _So...if it isn't money.... what do you need?"_ you glanced away from the phone, and stared blankly ahead through the aviators, because wasn't that the million dollar question? If you told your cousins, there was no predicting them. They were another wild card that you were not massively comfortable with, and they were dangerous at that. It was like playing with fire, that was the problem with the extended family. Playing. With. Fire.

 

 _"....Cookie? Are you still there?"_ you resisted the urge to cringe at the childhood nickname being used in front of the coach, because somehow, you had it in you to be embarrassed over that.

 

"Uhm, yeah I just," you chewed down on your lip "-I don't know what I need from you, and I don't know how much of this is really....a phone-talk," because seriously, was it? How? You thought about it for a long time but still had no answers - do you just say, 'Hi Raj, Hi Gurpal! I got drugged and raped at a frat party, here's who did it, please don't give them a Colombian Necktie but can you please get them out of VMA somehow? Thanks!' - Jesus Christ... they'd go postal.

 

They're gonna go postal, either way.

 

" _....Cookie, you're starting to worry me now. You wouldn't call us if you weren't desperate. Are you in.... some kind of trouble? We have friends we can get to you if you are,"_

 

Holy shit, Negan can't believe he's hearing this, of course, nobody is saying it in flat out crystal terms but he doesn't need them to - these guys are the real deal, they have to be, nobody talks about friends of that kind of a nature unless they were, instead, you just swallow thickly, not wanting to deal with any of the kinds of people your cousins associated with, you'd rather just deal with them, flat out.

 

"Uhm, maybe not. Can I ask you where you two are? Are you... can either of you get to Virginia?"

 

There's noises down the line that neither of you can make out, but he's telling somebody something, before he picks his phone back up and replies.

 

" _We've missed you. We'd love to come down and discuss how you're doing, but could you give us an idea of what's going on? I want to tell your mother that you're okay."_

 

But are you okay?

 

Shit.

 

Maybe you can just give them names, that'll do.

 

"You can tell her it's nothing serious, I don't want her to worry, can you just - if I give you some names, promise you wont go postal? Can you....maybe do some digging for me? Just information, that's all I want. I'm worried that... there's some bad people here at VMA. Um, really bad - and I have friends that might be too close to them and I think I'm involved without meaning to be. I can't really go to the cops so that just leaves you. It's really complicated, and I don't want to have to tell you all this over the phone," you cringed again, because seriously, how is this something you discuss on the phone?

 

There's silence down the line, and this time, it's the other cousin.

 

_"This is Gurpal. Give me the names."_

 

You frowned, but remembered he was always the more technical one.

 

"Justin Sharpe. Albert Eichmann. Linus Parks," you said shortly, knowing he was probably scribbling them down.

 

_"....Raj is packing, he has a round trip to Cambodia in a few days, but I can clear some things, and come down to Virginia. He can follow me after. Cookie, when you say bad people, how bad are we talking here? Because it's enough to worry you, and you're the smart one. What are we walking into? Can you give me something more than this before I go around, booking flights?"_

 

Shit. 

 

"You know how I work on dead bodies now, right?" you said rather non-eloquently, getting a snort down the end of the line.

 

" _Yes, and I remember the fit your auntie pitched over it, is this about a body?"_

 

"Um, yes and no. Scopolamine was found on the eyelashes of one and nobody is allowed to talk about it, on top of that, I got a threat which told me to stop working on the body. So I did, and the police have the threat, but they're kind of....useless. So, I'm calling you. There's more. But I can't explain it like this. I need to see you."

 

There was silence, and both you and Coach Negan looked at each other, your expression was unreadable, but his was abject curiosity.

 

" _Burundanga? Scopolamine? You're - sure about this?"_

 

There's recognition in his tone, and a keen, sharp sense of urgency that put Coach Negan on the edge of his seat a little. You frowned, but of course your cousins knew what this drug was, it was their purview in terms of things related to their business, you doubted they dealt in it, but clearly they've run into it before, they at least know how serious it is. Maybe they even appreciate the urgency far more than you do now.

 

" _....Burundanga.... in Virginia?.... That's....not right."_

 

"You're telling me?" you exhaled, shaking your head even though he couldn't see it "The police don't know, the head of autopsy - Eichmann. He kept it out of the report. That's why I'm telling you."

 

There's more shuffling noises before there is an answer.

 

_"He's cancelling his flight. We're both coming. Thank you for telling us - but while we're both moving, contact will be a little harder, so don't try and do it again. We'll send you something when you can. Nobody threatens family."_

 

You winced and closed your eyes - oh yeah, that sounded like they were agitated, and they didn't even know the full extent of what had gone down. This might get ugly, and so driving out here to make the call was definitely more wise than it was paranoid.

 

_"Was there anything else you wanted to tell us? Over the phone?"_

 

"No, that's it, and um," you shifted awkwardly in the leather seat - the last time you'd seen them had been when you were sixteen, the rest was all phone calls - like this. "I love you,"

 

They laugh, and surprisingly, they even say it back - like you ended a cheerful, family facetime call or something, saying it in unison down the line.

 

" _We love you too!"_

And just like that, it's over. Negan lets the dust settle for a moment before he realises it's actually pretty cold, and so he stuck his key in the ignition, lighting up the dashboard so he could put on the hot air at least while you sat beside him, expression covered by those large sun frames. He watched you slip the burner phone back into your bag and let out a long exhale, shaking his head with that insufferable sort of smirk of his.

 

"That was short," he said.

 

"All calls with them are short," you replied.

 

Yeah, that made sense, but honestly the whole thing just felt too quick and too light for something that was anything but. It makes sense though, because Coach Negan cant think of a way for you to drop the events of the past few weeks into one phone call, plus, you made it short with a reason. If it was done over the phone, you could guarantee a fury, you could guarantee the anger too. You knew they were unpredictable but you still knew them, and knew that their anger when family was hurt was unprecedented, and they would leave a blazing trail of blood from wherever they were right to VMA's doors if you didn't deal with them a certain way. You had to present them with plans, to tell them what you wanted in person, otherwise - it's messy.

 

"If I told them everything I told you today on the phone, it'd be a..." bloodbath "-mess."

 

"Some things are an in-person talk," Coach Negan agreed - before letting out a low whistle of appreciation. "Your cousins - they're the real deal aren't they?"

 

You nodded numbly, your fingers digging into your wrists and beginning that telltale reaction again. He doesn't blame you, you're terrified but keeping a calm veneer behind those aviators but you were negotiating with scary people - even if they were family, to reach out for help. You only really had Coach Negan, and people you had to buy a fucking burner phone just to contact. That's hardly a terrific support network, and he knows why you can't tell everybody else, they become complicit.

 

"Thank you for driving us out here so I could do that," you turned to face him "-and everything,"

 

What you say next, throws him for a loop - you're more grateful than even he realises, or you have a full scope of what he's truly complicit in by virtue of agreeing to keep your secrets. You actually lower the aviators down so he can see the sincerity in your dark eyes, that's what you want him to see. You hope he sees it because you've never meant anything more in your life than what comes out of your mouth next.

 

"I've never had anyone do this much for me before, and I know how much I'm asking for when I ask you to be complicit. I really do, and I don't have anything I can give you back. I mean, I don't think that I do, so I'm not really sure what I can do to show you that I'm grateful and that you made the right choice in keeping this a secret with me and not going to the dean or the police. So," you cleared your throat, and the digging became harsher, your skin was raised and red.

 

"I can't offer you anything, so I'm offering you everything. A figurative blank cheque - that if you ever need someone, or something. For anything. I mean, little or big, if I have the ability to do it, I'll do it, and if I don't, I'll find somebody who does, and I'll help you. I can't really... I don't really have anything else to give," he feels your hand on his bicep through the tracksuit in roughly the same spot where you'd cried, it had been drying for some time now and was invisible except for the fact he could feel the moisture still against his arm.

 

"You don't really seem like the kinda guy who needs any help, you seem kinda put together," you admitted "-but sometimes, things come up, and we do. So um, if you ever do, you can ask me and I'll do it. Literally, it can be anything,"

 

Well, at least the fact his life outside of VMA was left wanting and pretty pathetic wasn't on-show, because being 'put together' is not really how Coach Negan would describe drinking heavily down The Roach. He's glad that you think that of him. Coach Negan also wasn't sure what you're offering, but at the same time, it's appreciated, because it's basically a favour. He can't think of when he'd possibly need one, but considering the reach that you apparently have just regarding your cousins alone, then yeah, it was actually pretty cool feeling - like he had favour with a mob boss or something.

 

Looking at your small frame though, and the kindness in your tired, sleepy eyes before you pushed the aviators back up, it was almost hard to swallow had he not been present for the call himself.

 

"Mum always said to be good to the people who are good to you. So, that's all I can really do," you give his arm a little squeeze, because that's safe, along with a little crooked smile.

 

"It's....appreciated," replied Coach Negan after a moment of deliberation. You never turn away an open hand, but he doubts he'd ever need your services, but it's a good thing to have - a favour in the back pocket. Big or small, and probably not just the one, since his assistance isn't a one-time thing, it's ongoing, and the way you spoke, your loyalty in return would be ongoing. "You never know when you need a favour."

 

With that, you let go of his arm, and he took that as a sign to start the slow drive back to campus, feeling just a little bit emptier knowing that his regular schedule was back on track, which included going to The Roach, and then his lonely apartment - falling into his bed, and then wait for another new day at VMA.

 

The regularity of it was both miserable and boring, even if his life was a pretty good one, all things considered - losses and all.

 

The drive back is quiet, and it didn't really feel right to keep on discussing the cousins or anything involved with the incident at the party now you were on your way back to campus. When the phone went into the bag - that felt like business was concluded, and Coach Negan got the vibe that you wouldn't want to talk about it anymore anyway. Instead, he changes the topic, trying to lighten the subject a little more, and learn a little about you. Besides his looks, and the fact he was captain, Coach Negan struggled to see what a girl like you saw in Trevor. He's not that out of touch, and he can tell what Trevor saw in you, he just didn't get it the other way around. You seem too...smart, for a boy like that.

 

"Y'know, for the fucking record," he said casually "-you probably would have been better off going out with Roy Thurman."

 

You had a look of surprise on your face, but the only way he can tell is that your eyebrows shoot up into arches above the reflective, black frames. Coach Negan's logic is that Roy is at least smart, and he would have fought for you a hell of a lot harder than Trevor did, and if anything, he'd have been stuck to your side after the party, not caving into terror. Roy is too good to be a coward, he's foolhardy and he's brave, and honest - through and through. That's why he's the new captain now, people respected him, and he was good at what he did.

 

"Why'd you say that?" you said, feeling the conversation lighten, even if it was only for a moment, you appreciated the change of tone and atmosphere.

 

"Eh, he's less of an idiot, and most of my team are meatheads," scoffed Coach Negan, making you gasp slightly, only for him to shake his head.

 

"I know a good portion of them are only here because of sports scholarships so the best you can hope for is that they're average outside of that, but more than two are just fucking dimwits. Roy's a rare one in that he's not actually a fucking idiot, you'd be good with him, I think. He's a smart kid."

 

You snorted, was Coach Negan seriously trying to set you up? Or put in a good word for Roy? You doubted very much you'd date in this century after the events of Fi Kappa Sci, and your history so far had been poor at best, but you smiled anyway.

 

"Too good," you said shortly "-girls like me don't really go out with boys like Roy."

 

Coach Negan frowned, was this the low self-esteem coming in? He figured you had to have that, considering all the crap you were on, if he had to take a gamble, he'd say that you probably had low self-esteem despite how you carried yourself. You didn't think you were worthy of a lot of VMA, he gathered that from when you were drunk in McDonalds. You practically admitted it - you said something to the effect of waiting for it to all fall apart. 

 

"And why's that?" he wondered maybe if this was him being old, because you spoke like you'd said an empirical fact and that he should know the natural order of things.

 

"I mean, I realised it with Trevor and I realised it with Shane when I punched above my weight. It's like... well, when you grow up the way I grow up, it doesn't matter how hard you work to get where you are, and how far you go from home, you kinda carry it with you, y'know?"

 

He really didn't.

 

"You grow up bad, and a bit of badness settles in you, and it doesn't really go away. Guys like Trevor, Shane and Roy, they come from practically a different fucking planet to me, I realised that while I was moping over my failed dates," you said, shaking your head. "-What's normal for me is freakish for them and vice versa, it's hard to explain but... like... they won't get it. They'll never get it. Trevor's reaction to what happened? How hard he shat his pants? That just kinda proved it, but for me it's.... it's... not.... abnormal, it's... horrible yeah but a bit easier to deal with because I've grown up around it. People who do drugs, people who pass out and bad stuff happens to them, people who get into fights because of drugs," you rolled your eyes behind the aviators.

 

"I wont get into the dirty details, whatever you come up with in your head is probably accurate. But that's why I can deal with it and they cant and I cant date guys who cant. They don't have that...badness in them, and y'know...far be it for me to drag myself into their life and be the source of it,"

 

You were saying, in a roundabout way, that guys like Trevor, the mysterious "Shane" and Roy deserved better than you, which Coach Negan thought was a bit of a sad way to look at things. You were painfully honest with yourself though, honest and realistic, which is more than most women. He appreciated how clinical you were, and how much you'd really thought about it, but it's still sad.

 

"That's fucking depressing," said Coach Negan shortly "-but I get it,"

 

Lonely, too.

 

"I guess you'll be telling that to space-case too,"

 

Yup.

 

"Wish me luck," you said dryly as campus came into view. You went to take off the aviators - remembering them last minute while you still had half your body in the car, before the older man stopped you. They really fucking suited you - sunglasses in general did, it hid the haunted look but it made you devastatingly mysterious, and he found that it suited you a lot when you talked like this.

 

"Keep 'em, they look better on you anyway."

 

You smiled a real, non-pained, non-crooked smile at him, even if it was just for a moment.

 

"Thanks - for everything not just the glasses, I'll uh...see you around or text you or something just - drive safe, okay?"

 

That's also the warmest goodbye he's had in a long time.

 

"Will do, now you go and get your fucking eight hours, Coach's orders." he said sharply as you shut the door, and he watched for a while as you headed for campus until your body was no longer in sight, dragging the overlarge wine-coloured bag full of secrets on your arm, hair swinging with the bounce similar to the one you'd had when you headed out of the gas station. His hand ghosted over the former wet-spot on his arm, and he frowned in thought before putting on the radio to fill the silence that you'd left in his Volvo. It was almost grudging, but he pulled away, and went to go straight to his apartment instead of The Roach.

 

He laid on his couch when he got home to his apartment, the way that he always did, and put on the TV just to fill the place with a soft hue and some accompanying noise, picking up an unfinished but opened glass-bottle beer near the sofa. It wasn't exactly nice, but it was tolerable, and it wasn't going to taste any better unless he dragged himself to the freezer for ice and then get a glass, and he didn't feel like it.

 

Negan just thought about his free favours for a while, and wondered if and when he could possibly use them.

 

_I should put together a training plan for her._

 

You also gave him something to do that wasn't drinking, thinking or worse -  _moping_ (a personal hobby which Negan found himself hating) - and even though he was complicit in keeping these sordid little secrets, they excited him. They were giving him another purpose for being, and he truly wanted to see justice happen.

 

Most importantly, he wanted to see more of the badness you mentioned.

 

More of the bad seed inside of the tiny little Mort Sci student, he was fascinated by the idea of the two-sided coin personality, of someone presenting one thing, but being another, because Negan himself was like that. He knew he had a darkness about him and he embraced it with open arms, but worked his more sadistic urges into his daily life and tamed them as he navigated the fog that came with mourning Lucille. You were something to focus on in this fucking haze and purposelessness and for that, he was relieved, but he wanted to know what  _your_ nasty underside was. 

 

What could a sad little girl whose popping half the pharmaceutical counter be hiding? What was the badness inside of you? How bad could you go? You seemed like you reached a limit just calling your cousins but what was your  _real_ limit? What made you be able to deal with dead bodies in the way that you did? What made you so clinical in the face of personal body horror, which, while dramatic - was the only way Negan could frame it in his mind, because being drugged made the helplessness that much worse. Body horror. It was body horror.

 

What made you the girl outside the gas station?

 

What made you too bad for "Shane,", Roy and Trevor?

 

His fingers ghosted over the new space made in his phone for your number as he texted out the time he expected to see you - straight after your laundry shift if you had no classes.

 

"How much of a bad girl are you?" he murmured to himself.

 

 

 


	10. She of Many Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More often than not I end up listening to something as I write, so I guess these chapters have an unofficial soundtrack, for this one:
> 
> Bad Girlfriend - Theory of a Deadman
> 
> Little by Little - Eric Hojden
> 
> If this chapter seems jumpy, it's because I kind of want to focus on some other perspectives in parts, not much happens in terms of the investigation here, but there's a bit more of that slowburn we all love <3

 

 

Here is what they don't tell you about mortuary science, because they expect that you'll know what you're in for. They usually wait until second year before they start letting you deal with things which are a true test of character, but not VMA - they weed out the people with lesser constitutions quickly. The presence of child bodies was usually enough to get people to call it quits, some people did - it had been, in a word, a hard day. Nobody could accuse you of dealing with stress well either, you found yourself hungrily glancing at your burner phone, waiting for the message from your family. 

 

You caught sight of Justin in the halls - one of the PhDs, and felt an instinctive bile rising in your throat as he smiled at you in passing. You thought you might feel a chill of fear, but instead, you felt a deeply nestled nervous urge to cut across the hall and slam him skull first into a scalpel. Lizzie couldn't fathom your attitude change, she just knew it was there - and that you had zero desire to go to her room and "get happy" with her - at first, she thought it was over the incident in the gymnasium, but it was apparent to her very quickly that it was something else.

 

It felt like you were on fast-forward, and Lizzie had no hope of ever catching up. Things are still awkward between you two, but thank God you're the quietest lab partners, who functioned with minimal talking.

 

She noticed your arms a long time ago, but honestly doesn't know what to say, so she never says a thing. In truth, she's growing distant from you after the incident in the gymnasium, because she knows she has some shit to work out. Part of her thinks that she should ask you what was going on under the skylight, because it feels like it's been forever since she's seen you smile. That's another reason she likened you to the skylight - because to her, the sun shone right through you. You were her only real friend to speak of, the only person she ever emailed daddy about to let him know that she finally found a place to fit in.

 

"Are we okay?" she asked, and honestly, you didn't have an answer. You needed her, and she hadn't been there, but with some perspective it was easy to see why she might not be very good at dealing with friendship problems. She's not actually used to having friends and any burgeoning attraction to you is probably a whole lot more confusing to her than it is to you. You know that you don't fancy her, and whoever you do like very rarely has to do with what kind of genitalia they're packing, but for Lizzie it's not that easy, she's probably never thought about it before. You're maybe a little bit more forgiving, but you don't know if you trust her with your problems anymore.

 

"We will be," is all you said in response, which was as fair an answer as she could expect.

 

Lorelai noticed the arms too, you go to bed late and wake up early, your excuse is always homework, but clearly it's not that. She thought it might be Trevor, and to be honest - she's not really wrong.  You're still mourning the decision to cut him off, and it shows. She asked if you needed another cut-loose, and promised that she wouldn't leave you this time, but you're not up for that hangover. The only time which is peaceful, quiet and doesn't entail you further spiralling downwards is when you're working laundry, meticulously sorting out sports gear before wheeling it all the way to the Sports Hub, taking your usual trolley route.

 

You still avoid the players, wheeling the laundry in at different times. Most of the time Coach is there to take it, but some times you just leave it in a designated spot and get the trolley back at the end of the day if you have to quickly rush off, though he's returned it once or twice while you weren't at the laundromat.

 

Coach thrust training onto you, and you didn't bother grabbing a shower that morning, figuring you'd only get sweaty later, and it was true. You did, but it's also just to put off looking at your body first thing in the morning, you just have too much bullshit swirling in your mind to work through and showers often force those thoughts out when there's nothing to fill the silence.

 

Training was surprisingly a lot less personal than last night, but that was probably due to the heaviness of the morning lessons. He noticed there was something off, almost like a displaced sort of anger. It was enough that he felt an ache reverberate through the boxing pad he has in his hand because he wants you to punch above your height for personal protection purposes. It's good - but it's causing an ache in your upper arms from just how much you're moving to try to meet his larger body toe to toe. 

 

Coach Negan doesn't betray the fact that his palm kind of tingles, hurting vaguely, because it's like you're on autopilot when he tells you to start punching and he can tell, you also don't actually talk unless there's a five minute break. The silence forced his mind to wander, and it really shouldn't. He's got to get used to the sports bra and yoga pants look - he really does, because he's feeling ever so slightly like a dirty old man, but not being one to experience much in the way of Catholic guilt about it, it's not really a thought he lingers on for long, because he's got more self-control than he thinks he does. It just comes with age, and experience.

 

"Rough day?" he asked, and you thought temporarily about going into detail, but you felt exhausted just bringing it up. You could tell there was an air of disquiet between the Mort Sci students who didn't expect child bodies or thought that they could handle it but couldn't.

 

You saw it coming, and just sighed, wiping the sweat off your brow and picking up the cold water bottle off of the bleachers where you'd left it.

 

"Something like that, the drop out is happening. Couple of students are depressed, turns out mortuary science isn't a super cheerful major," you said wryly, not elaborating, and he didn't push for it. He seemed to know when to push and when not to push but whether he did or he didn't entirely depended on his whims and how greedy he felt in terms of leeching information off of you. You didn't bring up any contact from family even subtly, so he assumed you hadn't been contacted. 

 

"You gotta have some balls for it, people can die in super gross fucking nasty ways," he said flatly, he remembered once on some forensic files type show he fell asleep drunkenly in front of that people actually crapped their pants when they died, he couldn't venture mortuary science was in any way fun, and really took a particular kind of person.

 

You just sort of grunted and slung the sweaty gloves off when he called the session to an end, you're definitely distant, but he isn't really sure if it's super appropriate of him to ask without having a fallback reason for asking, otherwise he just seems like he's getting too close. You just didn't want to drop "child bodies" into conversation so you just avoid answering or even saying he's wrong, it's better if he assumes you were dealing with average mortuary science levels of disgusting. Coach thought that maybe the toning down of personal vibes for this session was a way of cooling off after yesterday, plus, there was a high chance you were still embarrassed that you had suffered a breakdown in his car and on his arm, even if it had been a wholly reasonable one, he knew girls tended to get hung up on that sort of thing. 

 

"Alright, not bad, not bad," he smirks while you finish the entire bottle of water in several continuous chugs without pause, because he's the kind of hardass that pushes people to physical limits and you were sure this was probably doing wonders for your cardio as much as it is in terms of personal protection and training for boxing.

 

"We're done for now, you can go wash up, you're fucking sweaty," he chuckled - making you scoff, because he hadn't really broken a sweat at all, all he had to do was order you around and change positions now and then with the boxing pads.

 

"Shut up, I smell like roses," you retorted with an eye roll, before turning away and heading for the women's showers.

 

What set off a curious little frown was when he heard the loud sound of a camera phone shutter come from the empty (and he knew for a fact it was empty) separate showers, and the noise had echoed as he walked off into the men's to pick up his jacket he left hanging off of on a hook.

 

He had about an hour or so before Roy and the team would come in, he figured he could take in the uniforms you'd wheeled down, leaving you to shower in peace. Coach didn't know how to predict you, he really didn't - and often he would leave to quickly grab himself some more water and possibly a snack wrap before the team came, and you were relying on this fact, clearly.

 

Or you wouldn't have done what you did.

 

* * *

 

Trevor Matthews had never been so confused in his whole, entire, short life - but since the incident in Starbucks, and the fact that he was, at heart, the kind of boy who got hung up on things, his legs had never carried him so goddamn fast in his life. Trevor is pretty certain he power-walked across campus, occasionally breaking into a little run - thrusting himself into an empty gymnasium. He thought that he would never return your calls and texts again after having the holy hell beaten out of him, he was a coward through and through, but apparently there was one way to get him to cut across the campus this quickly and be potentially late for Military History.

 

He's confused as all hell, and at first, thought you'd honestly sent the text to the wrong person, instead, he's greeted with you standing in the centre of the gym under the skylight, damn hair glistening under the light and white lab jacket loosely hanging off of your shoulders. You're in your proper clothes now - which for today constituted a fresh non-sweaty pair of black leggings, your heeled boots and a lacy shirt because the Virginia heat was something you needed to get used to. You're not at your hottest, clearly, but you're clean, and your skin looks almost a little raw the closer he gets to you, like you'd scrubbed it rather hard.

 

"I'm here, fucking hell - that text, I thought-?" he's confused as fuck, and doesn't know where to begin, blinking as you grab him by his slender hips. He's just in skinny jeans and a plain buttoned shirt, but the skinny jeans compliment his form in a way you can viscerally appreciate.

 

"We shouldn't be talking like this, meeting here, I mean," he said quietly, feeling your severe stare as you glance up at him.

 

"I didn't plan to get much in the way of talking done," you said darkly - he doesn't recognise this tone either, but it's making him swallow thickly.

 

"Those guys--"

 

"We know who those guys are now and I know where they aren't," you hissed - feeling your patience for his cowardice wear incredibly thin, and to him you're acting very strangely, enough that there's actually concern bleeding onto his face. The only reason he's even slightly relaxed is that he didn't tell his friends where he was headed, nor did he see any classmates on the way. Of course, the thing that breaks Trevor into a fucking sprint is a picture of you from the neck down in the shower, it's not something you do regularly, or even occasionally, but you'd done it before. The key was to keep your face out of it, but you always knew just what to keep in, you kept in your chin, your lips, and spread your arm across your breasts, covering everything while teasing everything, and simply hit send under the shower.

 

That's the camera noise that the coach had heard. 

 

"Do you want to - I mean, in secret?" yeah, you get what he's getting at, but you scoff coldly.

 

"I didn't send you that picture to discuss dating," you grabbing his shoulders and springing to your tip-toes. "I think we're well past that, don't you?"

 

Trevor's not complaining, he's just massively confused, and to be honest, so is Coach Negan, who is now very much feeling like a dirty old man, not through any kind of intention to go and perv on his students, but he was casually storing things away and didn't shut the door fully because it always had a habit of sticking and he hated nearly breaking it every time he wanted to open it from the inside. He was pretty certain you'd made the assumption that he had gone out to get a light lunch or a snack, as it was kind of religious of him to do so before training the team, mostly so he could smugly eat while giving them orders, and also just to keep him going for a while.

 

"Storage room?" Trevor gasps out - because you smash your lips against his rather violently, silencing the boy's confusion, only for you to pull away, eyes still carrying the heavy intensity that they had all through boxing. Trevor found himself being walked backwards by your small, aggressive body. He's not complaining, he spent the evening after the Starbucks incident aching in bed over what he viewed to be a series of unfortunate decisions, and he had to admit, the level of danger presented by the threat and the clandestine nature of the meet was amping up the level of excitement. 

 

 _Shit! Not the storage room, I'm fucking in here and then it really will be awkward -_ Coach Negan groaned internally, though he'd get over it pretty quickly, he doubted you would, only to hear your deep and strangely heady voice echo through to the storage room from the large, empty gym.

 

"No. Here," it's a growl, and it's insistent, enough to make Negan raise an eyebrow as he turned to look out of the ajar door, idly fanning himself with the practice schedule with a vaguely amused expression on his face. He really was thinking of just walking in and ruining everybody's fun, because it would be fucking hilarious, but he also didn't want you avoiding him for about a week like you did when he sent off the original email when you spilled your guts in that very same storage room.

 

In his thoughts, he misses more of the exchange but he catches the tail-end, hearing you answer Trevor.

 

_"Because it's illegal."_

 

Hot damn, you  _are_ a bad girl, he mused, grinning to himself but feeling more and more like a perverted voyeur the more he stood there, but for the life of him, he couldn't understand how you went from crying in his car yesterday, to fucking this. But the fact was, you were not the best at coping, and when you were pushed past your threshold, you had a habit of overdosing on some sort of toxic behaviour, usually it was directed inward, on the arms - but sometimes it was with Lizzie with her happy meds, sometimes it was clubbing with Lorelai and drinking far more than your body weight.

 

Ruling out the last one so you could come and box in one piece, and ruling out Lizzie due to her insecurity around you, that left Trevor Matthews as the closest thing to feeding your nasty little habits, feeding that bad little seed inside of you that pushed you to the darker side of coping. The truth was, this wasn't even really that much about Trevor - I mean, sure, some of it was, but some of it was also being fucking sick of taking twice as long in the shower and scrubbing your skin raw after the drugging, part of it was just being sick of the greasy feeling you had when Justin Sharpe smiled at you.

 

So yeah, some of this was about you and Trevor, but a lot of it was about you, and with no bad habit to fall onto beyond hurting yourself, something had to give, because the last option didn't seem to be giving you the relief that you craved. Your showers were still long, and your skin was still red raw from the urge to scrub hard. You wanted to replace all of the sensations with someone else - something you controlled, and you trusted Trevor Matthews for that at least, and because that dirty theatre romp had been fucking  _good,_ and worth looking for a sequel.

 

Trevor hasn't figured any of that shit out though, his voice is just confused and breathy, but definitely into it.

 

_"Is this a booty call?"_

 

It doesn't even register that what you're doing is seductive, or sexy - well, to a degree you knew it must be sexy enough to lure Trevor across campus, but it's not something you thought about where you slid your role into that of an active seducer. In your mind, you were simply angry, confused, lost and yearning - "seductor" didn't factor in. What you don't consider, is how this looks to Trevor, who can detect the anger underlying your keening need because you were not quite like this in the theatre. Sure, you were needy, but it was a melting, soft sort of need where your little whimpers drove him insane, but this was something else. Heat is coursing through your skin and your heart skipped a few beats, because you're in uncharted territory, you're usually not like this when you're in your sober mind, but you think Trevor has something you want. So you're going to take it. Control, that is.

 

You just snorted at his question, and he felt his back get slammed against the climbing apparatus on the far wall, before your tongue is down his throat. It's no less violent than the kiss, but it's greedy and all-encompassing, you're hitching your entire small body against him and suspending yourself using his shoulders, digging your fucking nails into them because you're short and he's not, even in heels, but it leaves no space between your bodies. You feel a hand in your hair and at the back of your head, in truth, it's somehow a lot more exciting than even the theatre incident, because you aren't together, but he clearly wants you, and you're just furiously tonguing him like he might disappear if you stop. 

 

To Trevor, it's like you've had a body-swap with somebody else, everything from the photo to the sexually charged strut against his body was closer to something he'd think about in his bed more than it was something he would imagine you doing. To you, you're just desperate and searching, and to Coach Negan - he has no idea what he's seeing. He's wondering how many sides you had and whether some of it was an act or if you really did have this many layers, if he didn't know it was you and somebody told him you were doing what you were doing to Trevor right then, he wasn't sure he'd have believed them, even for a second.

 

Coach Negan can admittedly feel the electricity fill the entire impressively-sized hall and even waft into his storage area, because just watching you two kiss - it was clear there was a chemistry that wouldn't quit, kissing with a passion from both parties that's like a sparkler that's lit from both ends and burning down to the centre quickly as he sees Trevor's other wandering hand go up the lacy shirt.

 

That's when you pull it out and pull off him, feet hitting the floor with a clack and he's breathless like he's just ran track, because clearly the air is stolen out of his lungs.

 

"I have Military Hist--" he mumbles, but clearly he doesn't care, because his eyes are stuck on you as you slam his wrists against the apparatus with a noise that echoes, and he winces as you growl at him again.

 

 _"No. You have me now,"_ you have no real idea if what you're saying is sexy or not, to you, it's just riddled with an undercurrent of latent anger and a vast amount of impatience, but Trevor can feel his throat go completely dry as he looks down at you, still wide-eyed and reduced to strangely innocent simpers of "Oh my God," - because he can't believe this is happening, and even Negan thinks that it's honestly pretty sexy - and if he was Trevor, he wouldn't be doing much talking.

 

 _"- and, no you don't get to go up there any more. Not after what you did. Hands up."_ \- that's also a lot more domineering and controlling then the coach would expect from your small, and almost doe-like nature, because his mind flashes to you making him pinkie swear in the front of his Volvo - and it's a world apart from what you're showing right now. 

 

Trevor actually felt a little bit told off, but at the same time - your palpable anger is  _hot,_ and he didn't know what it was to be on the end of angry intimacy, he'd only really seen it in movies and porn, but it really is extremely hot, and he wasn't even sure he liked it this rough if you asked him outside of the moment. But in this moment? He cant quite get enough of it, and he's falling entirely into it without any regard for anything else except what you're doing to him.

 

Trevor's eyes go impossibly wide at your words and Coach Negan can feel his do the same, and the feeling of being a dirty voyeur is temporarily forgotten, because he's getting pulled in by the atmosphere as much as Trevor is almost, it's like everything that the nastiest, dirtiest sort of amateur college girl searches on porn sites  _try_ to emulate, and it's something fucking else to see with your own two eyes. Trevor's hands are high above his head, and you're undoing his belt as you push the top half of your small body against him, feeling the heat radiate off of his body, before you tighten the belt impossibly tight around his wrists, chaining him to the apparatus. 

 

 _So it's true what they say, nerds are kinky as shit -_ Coach Negan mused, and no, it wasn't a bad thing at all, but he found himself learning far more about you than he initially bargained for. That said, he could turn away at any point, but no. He doesn't. He barely even blinks. 

 

Trevor's throat has gone utterly dry as you drop the white lab coat around your heels and start unbuttoning his shirt, disbelief and excitement on his face.

 

_"M-my G-god, okay! That's new!"_

 

Coach is sure he's never heard Trevor stutter like that before, but then again, he's never seen Trevor get his collarbone greedily sunken into by a girl trying to maul him against the gymnasium climbing gear. He again, contemplates coming out and ruining the fun because of how funny it'd be, but he doesn't actually want to embarrass you, maybe he'd joke about it in private, but it honestly sounded like you were frisky as all Hell and he didn't want to be the guy who fucking killed the buzz, and began thinking if perhaps there was a way he could sneak out, because all he's doing is watching, and he's starting to feel dirty when Trevor moans - because that's a noise he never wants to hear from one of his team, former member or not.

 

He hears what is definitely the sound of a fly unzipping and is partially thankful that the pervy side of him isn't being fed anymore because your small body is covering whatever is happening to Trevor, but clearly Trevor's having the time of his life - just like he always thought he would -  _the crazy ones are always the wildest._

 

Maybe it wasn't even Trevor you really wanted, or the sensation of climax, but rather, the sensation of control back - but when Trevor's hands had began to climb up to your breasts, your reaction was so violent and controlling that it told you that you were not ready to hand the reigns to anybody, or at least, not him, yet you still craved to fill yourself with something other than the imagery of what must have happened while you were unconscious. Maybe a shrink could make sense of it, because you couldn't - you just wanted to replace the hands and bodies that had been there before with something of your own making, and for that? It was Trevor.

 

"Oh-- Babe..? Babe what're you...?" there is confusion, and he's panting heavily, because you adjust him, putting him into his boxers at least but leaving his jeans around his ankles and shirt undone all the way, revealing long scratches down the front of his torso, and the bruise forming on his neck. He did, however, also look quite embarrassing, especially with an erection and the fact he was just hanging there, flushed and confused as you began to back away.

 

You wanted to want Trevor and if you stopped thinking about the psychology of what you were doing, you would have definitely screwed his brains out right against that gym apparatus, but it doesn't feel right. You know what you want, and you think Trevor can give it to you, but after something as awful as the events of Fi Kappa Sci, some niggling part of you tells you that this should be more special than it is.

 

The horny part of you tells you to shut the hell up.

 

The truth of it was, you might have fucked Trevor on the spot, but realised that the act itself wasn't going to do much for you beyond make you feel that rush from fornicating in the gym due to the heightened risk of someone coming in, and illegality of it, but the devilish thought crossed you when the boy began to melt, and your stare had taken that cold, clinical look. Your body felt warm all over, it's not like you weren't a little into it all yourself, you could have taken him up against that wall and given him the time of his life, but you didn't.

 

"Nothing personal, Trev. You're just my Sophomore Squeeze," 

 

_I don't think I want it to be like this. I thought I did but I don't. Sorry Trevor._

 

Revenge is the best way you can think of to cover up the lapse of reason you have during your steamy session with him. Coach Negan felt his hand go over his mouth so he could stop himself laughing - holy shit. No way. No fucking way. He had a go at you for not being madder at Trevor, but it seemed you were just a very, very good actress or at least, had some complicated emotions going on, and it seemed Trevor realised what was happening too, he found himself rather hung up on you still, panting and biting down on his lip, looking remarkably liked a kicked puppy.

 

"B-babe, you're...you're not seriously gonna leave me here are you?" he warbled, wrists struggling.

 

"Don't ever fucking humiliate me again, don't you think people have done that to me enough?" you said, your voice cold, and it honestly nearly gave the man a chill as he watched you simply leave Trevor Matthews hanging from the gymnasium climbing gear, looking like a helpless, horny bauble. Both watched as you took his phone out of his pocket and casually deleted the photo you sent, not that you would panic too much if it got out - as there wasn't much to ID you with, it was better to be safe than sorry, and then, just as casually as you'd strolled out of the showers, you put the white lab coat back on, and picked your bag up from the bleachers silently.

 

"Babe! Please! The team have practice here in like an hour! Don't leave me like this!"

 

You took a leaf out of Coach Negan's book, and pretended he didn't speak, leaving the gymnasium with a natural sway in your hips from the heels and your face a dark, flush shade, lips slightly swollen as you brushed your long, damp hair back down your shoulders and didn't even bother looking back at him.

 

"I'm sorry! Please?"

 

You were gone, and honestly, from the smoothness in which you left, it even looked planned. Which is good, nobody needs to know about the absolute turmoil that had occurred inside of you.

 

Coach Negan took that moment to come out of the storage room, locking eyes directly with Trevor as his face went entirely red for a very, very different reason. 

 

Coach Negan then proceeded to laugh hard, and uproariously - directly in the boy's face, because that's the kind of guy he is, and when Trevor whimpered to be taken down, he just scoffed - and opened the door to the gymnasium when it was time for practice to roll around, at least by the time the team got there, Trevor wouldn't have a boner - God willing - anyway, but there was no way he was going to steal this little bit of justice away. Trevor had, after all, humiliated you in front of everyone, it's only fair that he get the same.

 

"Fuck no, the team have gotta see this shit - Ahahahaha!" 

 

God, Coach Negan was such an asshole.

 

And to be honest, Coach expected him to be fuming, but instead, his eyes are just wide as he pulls his trousers up and ignores the jeers, staring balefully at the gymnasium exit as though he could still you striding out of it, skin hot and flush - it's at this moment that he realised Trevor Matthews isn't actually mad, but how hard he fucked up is finally properly hitting him. He knew he did wrong when he cried in the admin office and told coach exactly how it went down, but he didn't actually realise how much he missed out on until he was left hanging and wanting. He didn't actually realise the gravity of the thing he could have had until he was reminded with force, how much electricity the two of you had.

 

Trevor can hear himself getting playfully teased, but his hand is just dumbly caressing the violent lovebite over his now buttoned-up shirt, glancing at coach, because he knows that he understands more of what is going on than anybody else, even if he doesn't know that you confessed a lot to him in private.

 

"Man, did I fuck up," he breathes - and Coach Negan can tell exactly what he's thinking, because he thought it too when you even had the foresight to methodically go through his phone and delete the lure you used to even get him there, he doesn't even know if you would ever have fucked him or if it was all one, big revenge stunt and if it's the latter, he doesn't blame you, but God - he's obsessed now, thinking about everything he kissed goodbye too. He let go of one  _hell_ of a fucking ride, and it seemed like it finally dawned on him.

 

"Eh, she was outta your fucking league anyway," Coach Negan chuckled, because he's not about to stand there and comfort him, he tells it how he thinks it is, and Trevor isn't even mad, he just sags a bit and doesn't fight it. It's true, you're too much for Trevor Matthews in his eyes - not only are your problems on a whole different level to his, one that he couldn't possibly cope with, but you're a bad - no...  _dirty_ girl who never for once lost sight of her goals even in the heat of it all and that's easily enough for Coach Negan to tell that Trevor wasn't for you. He finally understands your comment from yesterday too - about girls like you not dating guys like Roy, he might not fully understand what you meant by having a badness in you, but he knows Roy Thurman is a bit too clean-cut to handle the kind of shit you were throwing. Hells, Roy would probably blush into the floor if you tried what you did on Trevor, on him - he didn't seem the sort that could handle it.

 

"No kidding," Trevor sighs, wincing a bit as the bruise actually hurts to touch, but he swears, for every inch of embarrassment he just felt, he's just a little bit more hung up on you. Stuck on you. Coach watched him leave, and knew for a fact it wouldn't get reported or anything, and the team thought he rather had it coming, it was all in good fun - to be honest, but Trevor just feels mortified.

 

Not because everyone knows he likes to wear boxers with Harry Potter snitches on them, but because he finally realises what he's lost, and it fucking sucked.

 

Trevor left, and that left him coaching, and he probably wasn't going to see you until the big game the day after, because that match against VSU is happening, and Ramirez is at least proving to be an okay Trevor replacement, so at least there's that, but everybody noticed a change in that - for the game being this close, Coach Negan isn't yelling nearly so much. He doesn't even seem stressed, but then again, he's not the kind of guy you can easily read, and in terms of a team captain, Roy Thurman is as good as gold, making up for any lacking on Ramirez's part.

 

He hoped that he'd see you there at least, because even though you weren't supporting anybody in particular, it seemed your roommate dragged you for the cheerleaders at least. The VSU match was a distraction from the constant hankering for contact on the burner phone, and the disgustingly cheesy hot-dogs and overall crowd excitement was something worth going for. In all honesty, as entertaining as it was watching boys hurt each other - which you were enjoying immensely - there was another reason you were there.

 

Your first American football match had been where you had gotten Deputy Shane Walsh's number, and it felt like it negatively painted the experience of being in the stadium, watching a game live, and you were not at all ready to put up with that shit. The thing with Trevor? As much as it was to heal your ego, and maybe return control to you if you had felt like going all the way, it was all part of one common angry theme.

 

_I'm taking it all back._

 

You were taking back this experience from Shane Walsh, and to an extent, you'd already done that with the local McDonalds at least, when Coach Negan had taken you there and you had what was actually a pretty decent time. It felt good to do that, even if you were drunk as fuck and you hadn't really made the mental connection that, that was what your mind was trying to get you to do.

 

_Piece by piece._

 

So when Lorelai had more tickets for the game, you went without complaints.

 

Taking Trevor was about taking your body back, and while you'd only managed that a little bit, you definitely took back your injured pride.

 

_Little by little._

 

Now you were here, bouncing in your heels and trying to match your overly cheerful roommates candour. There were seas of people in the stands, and you found yourself not even looking for the presence of Shane or the friend he'd come with last time, the sheriff - because you vowed that this story would no longer be about the people who acted in your life and hurt you, it would be about you and only you. You had to control the narrative here - you had to try to get a handle on the chaos and stop yourself spiralling if you could help it all. You had to give yourself the ending you wanted, because frankly, you were fucking sick of never getting what you wanted.

 

Next on the list - refriending Lizzie Samuels, Ravinder, and Lindsay because, as Professor Liam Rowland said -  _with a good mortician, there's very little that cannot be fixed._

 

Friendships included.

 

* * *

 

 

Ramirez wasn't as fast as Trevor, but he was good - so it wasn't a complete bust, and at least this time, VSU suffered a loss. Honestly, Coach Negan couldn't say his mind was on the game - sure he was still doing his job, directing his team, conversing heavily on strategy with Roy during breaks, putting the fear of God in the team to get them winning. But his mind truly felt like it was busy thinking about other things, and that in terms of coaching, he was on autopilot - the best part: nobody seemed to notice, because he was excellent at maintaining the functional, social veneer.

 

He cant get that phone call you made out of his head, but more bothersome is the Trevor Matthews Incident. If you made no sense to Trevor in that moment, then you made even less to Coach Negan, who had spent the evening prior thinking about the dinner you'd had at Edgar's Diner. A line was blurred that day, and he knew that - and he'd thought about it some. The best word he had was mentorship, this was a mentorship but it was more personally and emotionally driven than the ones he had with his team, because he was their mentor too. Yours was a mentorship that bordered on a friendship, but in truth, his thoughts don't linger there for very long, he's too busy thinking about the incident yesterday.

 

It's hard to boil down into one little woman, he's seen so many different sides to you but what he witnessed yesterday was taking up a disgraceful amount of his thoughts. It was the oddness of it, he told himself - and nothing else.

 

Coach's mind goes completely blank when he sees you ditching your roommate and progressing down the bleachers at the end of the game, but this time, you don't jump onto the pitch - like you remembered you're not supposed to. It didn't even cross his mind that you were on friendlier terms with the sports team now you knew who had assaulted you, but it shows when you're absolutely beaming at Roy Thurman, and congratulating him and everybody else.

 

Honestly, you didn't think it was a big deal but you knew it was a big deal to the team, and they'd been surprisingly sweet since Trevor had dumped you so publicly, and you just wanted Roy to know that he was doing good as a captain, in his first victorious match against VSU. It was a fantastic omen for the rest of his time as team captain, and you let him know it, causing him to blast a smile that reached even his eyes.

 

It's terribly sweet, and Coach Negan is trying to equate it with the girl who pinned Trevor up to the apparatus and left him hanging, horny and wanting.

 

"As long as you don't string anymore of the boys up, we'd love it if you come to the after party," Roy grinned, watching as your skin turned faintly red at the not-at-all veiled reference to Trevor. Your mind completely glazes over at the invitation, you thought about it, sure, and Roy would probably look out for you. Lorelai would probably come too - but Lorelai was at the last party, and you thought Trevor was safe enough to go with, and look at how that turned out. Logically you knew you'd be looking out for too many signs so you're not left vulnerable again, but if you were going to be riddled with hypochondria, what's the point?

 

"They'll be  _caaaaaake,"_ Roy adds, with a slight playful whine. It's enough to make you grin, but your smile falters after a moment anyway.

 

"I can't, I have a..." a shift at the laundromat? Class? A club? None of those excuses flew, but if told with enough conviction they might. You don't really want to hurt Roy's feelings, and if you say you don't feel like it, it's usually a social cue to try to convince the other person otherwise, for their 'own good' and social life or something.

 

"Training, in about an hour and a half," Coach Negan's smooth tones break the conversation, and you let out an exhale.

 

"Coach, we won, you can take a chill pill," said Roy with a brow raised, it's sweet - like the boy is actually marginally concerned that he's not relaxing at all, even though the coach has never been particularly warm to him, or anybody on the team really. In fact, he's always the one that's occasionally extending the invite to coach too, but he generally refuses, because not only does it make him feel old, but he's not really excited by cheap, shitty beer in little cups and kids half his age who cant handle their liquor. It's sweet that he even does it though, showing that he valued coach as a peer as well as a mentor, but he knows better than to ask now.

 

"No rest for the fuckin' wicked, Roy," Fitting, especially for Negan, Roy mused.

 

"Alright," Roy shrugged - looking apologetically at you "-maybe another time, yeah? Catch you later - g'luck with the training!" he added as an afterthought. 

 

You sagged with relief as he turned to join the rest of his team, falling victim to aggressive strong-arming hugs that're pushy enough that his helmet nearly comes off as the boys thump each other on the back. They're happy and carefree, and honestly, Coach Negan should be stoked, part of him is - but he's concentrating on you. He caught the way your face fell for that half of a second when you were asked to go to a party and he didn't need to be able to read your mind to figure out why, the reason for the discomfort was almost instantaneous, and he opened his mouth to cut in before his brain even caught up with him.

 

He wasn't even sure why he felt the need to lie for you, it just sort of happened.

 

Coach held out his hand in a silent gesture to get you to jump the bleacher, making you frown as you took his hand.

 

"We don't have training again, do we?" you said in confusion, gripping him as you jumped onto the pitch and stumbled slightly if not for the firm hold, heels sinking slightly against the AstroTurf.

 

"I lied," Coach Negan replied, in cheerful tones.

 

Now you were _very_ confused.

 

"You looked like you swallowed a fucking lemon when he asked, so I lied," he explained, causing you to let go of his arm and glance away from him - he noticed that whenever he did a nice thing for you, whether he really thought about it much or not, you found it very difficult to look him in the face. It seemed like that perhaps, you weren't really used to people doing that for you.

 

"You didn't have to do that," you mumble "-but uh, thanks."

 

You were also saying some variation of thank you to Coach Negan, far too often. He offered you a ride in the most casual manner, and you say yes before you realise you're going to have to text Lorelai and let her know, and it's only mid text do you actually realise how strange it is to ditch her for a ride with a staff member. Still, you send it off anyway and figure it's not something she has any right to complain over since that time she abandoned you in DV8, and she doesn't - but she does send you a weird string of emojis that you struggle to understand, all you know is that there's a pile of winky-faces, before the word "DILF?".

 

You giggled at your phone, shaking your head - at least this showed Lorelai wasn't annoyed at being ditched. It just seems sort of ridiculous to associate that hardass with the word "DILF" - which honestly, you thought was reserved for cute old men in dad sweaters who looked amazingly attractive while carrying their kids in public. That's what you thought of when you saw the world "DILF" - and the idea of Coach Negan standing outside a school in an ugly dad sweater waiting for a miniature version of himself to come out of the gate was enough to have you chuckling at your phone. Yeah, right. Dilf.

 

Coach resisted the urge to ask what was so funny, because if you're texting on your phone, you at least don't have to have an awkward conversation on the way to the car.

 

Of course, by now you're giggling in the Volvo, but at least you're laughing and not miserable about missing the after party or something. It was going to be a good day - he thought, and it'd be nice to have you  _not_ upset in his Volvo for whatever reason, the first time had been due to being drunk and abandoned, the second had been a psychotic breakdown, all in all, he cant remember that many happy car rides with you. It's at least not awkward anymore, the first two times really did feel a bit out of place, but it seemed the third time was the charm, because you were smiling and comfortable.

 

He said he'd drop you off at campus, or wherever - since your moped was still in the shop, and that there wasn't actually any training scheduled unless you really wanted to. You admitted you were honestly tired, but part of you wished you were cheeky and brazen enough to say you enjoyed the day out at Edgar's Diner enough that you wouldn't mind just  _hanging_ with coach. That would be weird, wouldn't it? It's a shame, because you really would quite like it, he was the most trusted person you had at VMA, and you would have liked to have known more about him, but you cant think of a way of saying it without sounding as awkward as the desire to hang out with a man twenty years your senior really is.

 

It's not your fault though, he's cool, he's trustworthy, and after talking to him as much as you do, it's hard to just lump him in with the rest of the older faculty of VMA. It's society which makes this feel a bit weird, you think - or maybe you're just overthinking it, which, you probably are.

 

But Hell, you're twenty, why would he want to hang out with you? He's the kind of guy that spends his evenings drinking in The Roach and probably has Old Guy Hobbies like....fuck, you had no idea. Billiards and gambling? That was your father's thing, but you had nothing else to really go on.

 

"Coach, can I ask you something?" your tone is hesitant, but it's not as serious as most 'we need to talk' moments you've had with the man, and he's grateful for you ending the awkward silence, because he was about ready to stick on the radio instead.

 

"Shoot," he replied abruptly, slowly turning and taking what you don't actually realise is the longer route back to campus. The question you ask throws him for such a fucking loop that he's surprised he doesn't rear-end another car, it's so out of left field that he actually snorts. Loudly.

 

"Do you have kids?"

 

He had no idea where the  _fuck_ that came from, but he catches a tiny, almost coy smile on your face and starts laughing because of how fucking ridiculous the question is. Him? Kids? Jesus Christ,  _no._

 

"Do I look like the kinda fucking guy who has kids?" he laughed "-where the fuck did that come from?"

 

You're smug in that you're right, and go to text that to Lorelai, but think the better of doing it in case he tries to glance away from the road at your phone screen, the last thing he needs to see is that weird string of emojis and the inside joke that you had going with your roommate. Coach Negan is still amazingly confused, but still laughing, because it really did come out of nowhere - was he really so old to you that you looked at him and thought 'yup, that guy is a father' or something?

 

"I thought so - it's... God, it's just this stupid thing, don't worry about it," you laughed back, and he realised that he hadn't heard you laughing properly like this, where it's the kind of laughter that reaches all the way up to your eyes and has your whole torso convulsing with giggles. It's actually quite nice, and he can wager that with everything you've had going on, your past, and the nature of your major, you probably don't get to laugh like this very often.

 

"What stupid thing?" Coach Negan pushed, smiling as he looked out onto the road, finally - a light conversation with you.

 

You shook your head vehemently, folding your arms over your chest and looking mindlessly out of the side window as the traffic from the VSU game brought you to a gentle standstill. Honestly, Coach Negan was a very cool guy, and he was good to have a laugh with, because as mean as he is, he definitely has a sense of humour, but you wonder just how far that sense of humour goes. A redness starts to creep up on your face a bit as you smother your giggles at Lorelai's texts and put your phone away again before she sent you something that set you off. You didn't want Coach Negan to get the wrong idea or get weirded out or something, how could you explain this inside joke without explaining The List?

 

"Just a stupid thing between me and my roommate, honestly, it's - it's really dumb, just forget it," you smiled. 

 

Coach Negan refused to, naturally - because now his mind was trying to come up with why you'd possibly ask that question and what baring that had on your roommate, and what kind of discussion possibly led to it.

 

"A thing between you and your roommate that makes you ask if I have kids or not?" said Coach Negan, wheedling criticism into his tone, though his smile betrayed the fact he wasn't actually offended or annoyed "-it's a bit personal, don't you think?"

 

He watched as you began to chew your lip in that nervous way that you did, struggling to look anywhere but him - which was fine, considering he was mostly concentrating on driving, but the fact you'd asked a rather personal question did make you feel a little guilty, like you should explain it somehow.

 

Oh God. You might actually have to explain The List.

 

"Sorry," you said after a moment, hoping that might be the end of it.

 

"Nope," replied Coach Negan cheerfully "-you don't get out of it that easily, go on, tell me, you've got me all fucking curious now, it'll bother me all goddamn day if you don't tell me." There's even a hint of a whine to his tone, and figuring that you cant really embarrass yourself in front of the man any worse - not after you'd have a breakdown in his car like a snivelling child, you bite the bullet, groaning internally the entire time.

 

"Fine, but you're not allowed to get offended," you said after a long moment of deliberation, which had him raising his eyebrows in curiosity. Now he _had_ to know.

 

"Okay so, after Trevor dumped me in front of everyone, my roomie forced me into making this really stupid list," you groaned, feeling the urge to put your hand over your face and hide it. Thank God for the fact coach was busy driving because you didn't think you could deal with his severe stare and cocky smirk, demanding the information out of you. It was already cringey and weird. "-Like, on physical paper, not online. No one's supposed to see it. Anyway, y'know how like in those chick flick type films where the mean girls all make a nasty burn-book type list about people they don't like or something?"

 

"Mhm," his tone betrays nothing but raw curiosity.

 

"Well, this is like that but the opposite. It's a...Nice List," you sighed, running your hand nervously through your hair. "-Lorelai said to make a list of Guys Better Than Trevor Matthews to cheer me up, but instead of writing something really mean, we write something really nice, a physical and a not physical quality. I forget why we ended up doing it, to remind me there's plenty more guys? I dunno, we kinda lost sight of it pretty quickly and ended up just listing every guy that we knew the name of just to pass the time,"

 

"That is...." whatever you expected Coach to say, it wasn't this "-pretty fucking cute, actually. Not where I thought you were going with that," after all, he'd taught high school. He wouldn't have begrudged you either if you had made a list about all the nasty things you didn't like about Trevor and all the stuff he'd done to make you mad, or even if you did a spiteful, mean list ranking all of the boys or something.  "But what's this gotta do with me having kids or not?"

 

Fuck. He was persistent, and didn't lose sight of the question. He saw out of the corner of his eye, you slump in the leather seat and begin burying your face into both of your hands in slight melodrama, causing his smile to widen.

 

"You're on the list."

 

Immediately he lost sight of his question, and asked if you actually had that list on you. It was a silly, stupid thing, but he really wanted to see it - he was curious now, and you admitted it was folded into one of your textbooks you had in your bag that you'd been too lazy to take out. What you didn't expect was for him to pull over onto a side road just so he could look at it, the only reason you even handed it over was because he made a vaguely threatening joke that the administration probably shouldn't ever see that list, lest you get into trouble.

 

So like a good girl, you handed it over - pouting slightly without even really realising you were.

 

"That's a lot of boys," he said dryly, unfolding the piece of paper and chuckling at the big bubble-letter title. It really did feel like something he'd see in confiscation back at the school he used to work at - "Guys Better Than Trevor Matthews," complete with idle doodles. The first thing he notices, however, is the name of the PhDs - which are violently scribbled out, along with whatever nicety had been put down about them. His cheerful candour fades for a second, and instantly you know where his eyes landed. He searched for his name on the long list, only to find it was actually the fourth name down, though it didn't seem like it was ranked or anything, it did show that he'd come to mind fairly early on.

 

The smirk returns though when he catches his name - the compliment there makes him visibly preen and you cant even take your hand off your eyes to look at him when he reads it out loud.

 

"Hottest body in his age range - wait - what's this?" he tilts his head at the crossed out word Lorelai had put down, and you answered before your brain caught up.

 

"Oh, that means Dad-I'd-Like-To-F"  you caught his eyes in that moment, and his cocksure grin, and instantly your mind flatlined, and a sort of strangled noise left you, in a pitch that he swore was one smidgen higher than it was before. "Facebook," you finished lamely.

 

Yeah, he was pretty sure that you weren't going to say Facebook, and honestly, he cannot stop preening, he's just nodding and smirking while his eyes rove down the paper, reading out random names and compliments because he's trying to picture you putting pen to paper and actually writing some of this saucy, silly stuff.

 

"Lucas Bromly - always argues with Prof Payton - has a nice ass," he reads out bluntly, making you cringe and wince at the same time - Professor Payton was the woman who taught your minor, and so arguing with her was seen as a positive in your eyes, as you weren't exactly her number one fan. "Wow," Coach Negan chuckled.

 

You're mortified, clearly, and he lets out a low whistle - teasing you further.

 

"Damn, you dirty girl, you," he teased, and he's lighthearted about it, but it makes you utterly red from cheek to cheek, because it feels like he's also referencing the elephant in the room - the Trevor incident, and he is. The best part, is that you don't know how much he actually saw of it as it happened, and he contemplated revealing it just to watch you melt into his leather seat in complete embarrassment, but he doesn't actually want to make you implode. You might not ever get into his Volvo again if he does that.

 

"Maybe don't let this get out of your sight, not even because of the fucking administration but just because of the amount of male egos this'll boost," he laughed and handed it you back, watching as you violently screwed it up and proceeded to destroy it, before shoving the remains in your bag.

 

"Why the fuck would you think I'd get offended? Shit, by all means, tell me how fucking awesome and hot I am," Coach Negan laughed, because he's not sure he's actually had this sort of thing directed at him from somebody as young as you, and clearly it cant be that personal, since about every male name you knew ended up being on that list anyway, but it's nice to be complimented in such a way. He has a massive ego problem, he's aware of it - he's more socially conscious than most people would assume of him, but clearly he missed a few beats when it came to what you thought about him, because he didn't expect "Kind" on there at all.

 

Even still though, he's mostly hung up on being told he's got the hottest body for his age range, which, for a guy whose in his forties, is a pretty decent compliment.

 

"Because that's not totally awkward," you replied sarcastically, cheeks still a dark shade.

 

Honestly, how were you embarrassed over this, but able to do what you did to Trevor? Coach Negan  _really_ wanted to know, and he was fighting every urge to ask, because then he'd have to reveal he was actually present for your....tryst, if he could call it that.

 

"Besides, your head doesn't need to get any bigger, you might not be able to fit in your car anymore," you added, trying to play it off at least a bit. Coach isn't the least bit offended or effected by it, in fact, after reading that stupid list, he doesn't bother wiping the infuriatingly cocky expression off his face all the way back to campus. 

 

 "Ah yeah, then who the fuck will ferry you while your moped's broken?" he teased, and you just huffed, not deigning to answer - because then you might actually have to explain you ditched your roommate just to go back to campus with him instead, and you weren't even sure how you'd manage to justify that out loud.

 

Because frankly, you weren't even sure why you did it yourself.

 

* * *

 

You decided you were going to make it up to Ravinder Singh that evening, once your late laundromat shift was over.

 

Hanging out with Ravinder had been a very worthwhile experience, especially as Lindsay had been one of the many who had dropped out entirely. You didn't realise just how much you missed it, but there was something about hanging out with another South Asian that was oddly comforting while you waited on responses from the damn burner. This helped you put your thoughts aside, and he still owed you that authentic Indian dinner to remind you of home! With your moped in the shop, he offered to take you in his car, which was admittedly, a very nice car - especially for someone who knew little about them other then how to break into them.

 

"You're kinda like a lost little ducky without Lindsay," you teased, and it was true, he was - but he admitted that Lindsay tended to steer him away from you on purpose due to your affiliation with Lizzie, but he didn't have much opinion of her either way. It seemed Ravi was not the kind of guy who put much stock into Katrina's words or whatever she had to say.

 

"You just seem kinda lost in general," said Ravi with a frown - he was rather intuitive like that.

 

"Ugh, Ravi, please. It's been forever since we've hung out properly, it's too soon to go this deep," you moaned, and honestly, you had Lizzie for that - even if it was kind of weird between you two now. You spent the evening listening to Ravi complain about his, quote "Roommate from Hell," - and the space documentary series he'd been bingewatching on Netflix. True to promise, the place he took you was definitely a reminder of the food you missed from back home. It was definitely cleaner and nicer than all of the restaurants in your area back where you lived, but the menu was thankfully familiar, and yes, it reminded you of your mother's cooking, and the things you actually missed.

 

The whole place had that typically gaudy red and gold that you noticed your people were rather fond of, but the restaurant "Curry King," managed to pull it off rather nicely, even if the faux-Persian designs on some of the curtains looked far too much like they were trying to be posher than they really were.

 

A hot and spicy vindaloo later, with some rice and some delicious tandoori sides, you felt ready to call it quits, you were still working on eating a lot and it was mostly nostalgia for back home which had you spooning it all into your face. If not for the force feeding back at Edgar's - you doubted your stomach would have been able to deal with it, you even cut loose and told Ravi about Lizzie.

 

Of course, you should have known that things were going too well for it to last very long.

 

You had left the dinner feeling empowered, happy, cheerful even - and ready to go to talk to Lizzie. You walked back to Unilocks and went straight to the fourth floor where her room was, calling out for her and patiently waiting.

 

Then waiting.

 

Waiting.

 

And waiting more.

 

Eventually, you put your ear to the door, expecting to hear Kat Dahlia playing, but heard nothing - so maybe she was out? Lizzie Samuels never really went out, but there was a first time for everything, she could even be in the 24/7 library for all you knew, so you got your main phone out and called her - only to hear the ringtone going off from the other side of the door. Now, she was probably ignoring you on purpose or maybe she had some music on, so you found yourself forcefully knocking, only to have the door creak open with a gentle groan under your fist after the first, hard tap.

 

You stopped the phone call when you saw Lizzie in bed, and frowned - it wasn't like her to leave her door unlocked if she was falling asleep, it was also a pretty unsafe thing to do, even in dormitory accommodation.

 

"Lizzie?"

 

You walked over to the bed and sat down on it rather brazenly, considering she had made out with you, it was about time you addressed it, whether she was napping or not.

 

"Lizzie, we should probably talk," you said insistently, rolling your eyes and reaching for her shoulder to shake her awake. As you did, her head gently lolled to the other side, so that you could see her closed eyes and resting, gentle features. Instantly, you felt your heart drop into your stomach as you moved your hand to her head, and took hold of her chin, moving her head to lay centre of the pillow so you could get a good look.

 

Under her nose was a slimy trail of maroon - which was slowly dripping into her upper lip.

 

Blood.

 

"Oh, fuck!" you screamed, jumping up instantly - oh fuck. 

 

FUCK.

 

Maybe it was all of the medical know-how, but in truth, it was definitely your upbringing, as this was an admittedly, familiar and painful sight, you found your phone with your clammy hands, heart suddenly beating twice as fast as it had a few moments ago, fumbling for emergency services. You even thought about carrying her downstairs and making a mad dash to the university hospital - and when you said where you were, or were trying to, anyway, over your abject panic, you heard something about an ambulance dispatch and screamed. You didn't need an ambulance from the other side of fucking Virginia, you needed one parked up by the university to get her in a stretcher! FUCK! The goddamn  _incompetence!_

 

It was enough to get other people's attention, and you ended up doing something that in literally any other scenario, you should never,  _ever_ fucking do.

 

Never move somebody whose had an accident.

 

However, you were trained to some degree, and this was unfortunately, not your first rodeo. Your screams attracted some people, but all they saw was you scooping Lizzie Samuels with all of the strength that your small body could muster, before bolting down the corridor of Unilocks, to a point your heeled boots slowing you down made you kick them off in the middle of the hall, breaking into a mad dash. You were sure that at the worst, this was a sign of haemorrhaging, and best? She hurt herself while taking some of her pills, either way, you knew exactly what this was. It was an overdose, and you didn't need a scrap of paper saying you were medically qualified to tell you that.

 

Overdoses were time sensitive, you knew that, so that trumped the "Don't move them," rule.

 

You don't feed them, and she's unconscious anyway, so that wouldn't work.

 

You don't put them in the shower like in the movies.

 

You don't let them sleep, or try to force them to vomit as some of it could still be absorbed into their body - that's what you do if there's no fucking hospital there.

 

So with all of that in mind, you dashed down the stairs, adrenaline fuelling your strength - that and Lizzie was painfully light. Too light, even - it was like picking up a little pixie, but you made the mad dash across campus, feeling the grass under your feet, and mud getting onto your socks. You had to have passed at least thirty people dispersed onto the quad, with clueless and concerned students from Unilocks ambling out. You physically bolted until you saw one of the EMT trucks parked outside of the ER entrance to the hospital wing.

 

Without thinking, you ran inside, putting her down on the first stretcher you found. You were incoherent - you were pretty sure, but there were swears, screaming, and abject panic - you didn't even realise you'd left your phone in her room,  but the moment the words "Haemorrhage" left your lips, a vaguely familiar student doctor came into view, and just like that, Lizzie's stretcher was very quickly taken out of your grasp.

 

_Oh nononononononono fuck no, no. Lizzie what the fuck did you do!?_

 

 


	11. Disarming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I kinda thought the Reader deserves something nice to happen in this chapter. So yeah. Something nice happens. Let your hearts melt, mine kinda did. Tbh I could gush about this chapter forever, it's bloody adorable. Seriously, zero story progression here, it's just "ya'll deserve something nice." So here you go.

People are throwing all these words at you, but they don’t really matter. You don’t feel particularly good about anything you’d done. It could just as easily be you there, in Lizzie’s sickbed – if your body chose to react the wrong way. The slew of thoughts that hit you first were panic, and then guilt. You didn’t know if there was an intention behind it or not, and that’s what kept you on the edge of your seat. She was, at the end of it, okay – but barely. A second later, and she might not have been. You’re not sure how much ground you covered between Unilocks and the Science Institute’s hospital wing, but it’s enough that you’re practically viral. You also worried, briefly, if it was intentional on the part of somebody in Eichmann’s crew, but it proved to be unfounded.

 

“Apparently you carried me down four flights of stairs,” her voice isn’t airy, it’s crackly and dry because they pumped her full of a vile, black, purging liquid which had detoxified her insides with a force. “I suppose this is the part where I say ‘my hero’ right?”

 

You can’t joke with her.

 

“Don’t you ever pull that bullshit again, you fucking scared me half to death, you stupid – you idiot!” you want to soften your tone, but you cant. She frightened you, and she can tell as much – part of her relishes in your attention, but most of her feels guilty for even having the thought. How could she do this? You thought she knew what she was doing, for fuck's sake - the thoughts that went through your head, did she have any earthly idea?

 

"Do you have any idea what went through my mind?" you ran your fingers through your hair as you spoke, she caught the sight of fresh red in the flesh of your left arm. It's not obvious if you don't look, and you keep your nails small for the kind of job that you do, but they're strong as hell, and you'd drawn blood in your concern. You thought she'd been drugged, you thought it was the PhDs again, you thought she might not even make it, because the amount of strain you put your liver through when you overdose is tremendous. You're fucking lucky yourself that you inherited daddy's - and would often joke that you inherited the strongest working liver in England, but other people you would arrogantly judge to say they didn't have that kind of a constitution. 

 

"I thought you did it on purpose - I thought - "  _it was because I didn't like you the way you wanted me to._ God, did she have any fucking idea?

 

“I mixed the wrong things,” was her explanation. It doesn’t sit right with you, and so finally, she spills her guts out. It took her long enough. You knew her for this long but still didn’t know quite what all of her medication was even for.

 

She’s saying things like _object permanence problems_ and _auditory hallucinations_ but honestly, the only fucking thing that sinks in is the part where she says she’ll probably have to go home because her daddy pays for a special sort of group therapy home that she goes to when her mental state deteriorates, but as of late, he’s been sending her there to stop her pill problems, and make sure she’s monitored carefully.

 

“You can’t leave – you’re – you’re brilliant,” you blurted out. It came out lamer than expected, but it’s fucking true. Lizzie Samuels is just as good at what you do, and if she leaves, she’s going to miss out. Mortuary Science makes her fucking happy, and you could keep an eye on her and stop enabling and joining in on the pill popping if that is what it took. It’s not fair.

 

"My sister's already called him, I don't really have a choice," Lizzie smiled, a little sadly.

 

This is the part that makes you snap.

 

"And where the fuck has she been all fucking year?!" you snap "-she's not hung out with us once, she's done nothing for you, but she's the one who gets to ship you off back home? That's bullshit!" 

 

You're right of course, but in your agitation and high emotion, you don't actually soften your words as much as you usually would. Lizzie is confronted by your words with the blunt fact that her sister, Mika, chose her friends and diverged, keeping in with her own major that she didn't even engage with her anymore. In retrospect, it was actually quite a sad realisation to have, but fighting with Lizzie isn't going to fix it. It's not going to undo it. The best chance you had would be meeting their father but you highly doubt you're in any position to convince him.

 

He's grateful you saved her goddamn life, but is he going to listen to your advice on how to parent? No, in fact, he'll probably ask you what the fuck you were doing while she was overdosing.

 

It just wasn't fair.

 

But that's when Lizzie says it, like it's comforting, or something.

 

"But it can be a good thing," she said, closing her eyes "-it can be safer this way,"

 

* * *

 

 

At first, Coach Negan had been annoyed. He was an extremely good timekeeper, for one - and when he made appointments, he expected people to honour them or let him know otherwise. He had very few things that got him irrationally pissed off, but he had to say, other people being late was one of them. What pissed him off even more than that, is when people fail to turn up at all and don't even deign him with an excuse for it, it's why - as "cool" as he is - none of his team are ever late for practice. Absences always come with reasons. Your absence came with no reason, and for that, he was initially quite pissed. It took Roy Thurman handing him the university paper that he actually even found out what was going on. The headline is there in black and white while he's drying off after a shower. He ended up doing some training himself - a body like his is not kept with low effort - just to fill up the time that was supposed to be used for PT.  He's not one to read the university paper, he usually sees them as pieces of physical spam that just get dumped all over seating areas and benches, but today, it was brought to his attention. 

 

The headline is clear, and it's almost glamorous, with terms like "mad dash," and "frenzied rescue," amongst your name, and a redacted one.

 

It's too much for one person, coach thinks, because that's all he really can do. Sit and think. A day or so ago you'd been quite happy, giggling and smiling - pushing Trevor into a wall and quite happily taking back your power and your pride. Now you were in the centre of a new mess, and he couldn't reach you. Even the university paper simply said  _unavailable for comment -_ it was all a little concerning. He finished up for the day and packed up the crash mats from when the cadets used them, half expecting to find you laying under the skylight or reading in the bleachers, or listening to music. He even packed up just a little later than usual on the off chance you might be there, he wasn't sure what he'd say necessarily, but it'd be good to get the facts. If he knew you though, and to a small extent it felt like he did, you'd probably be off getting shitfaced-drunk.

 

You seemed like most 20-somethings with more responsibility than sense, and he doesn't begrudge the fact you drink, smoke and party. You're at the age for it, but it's not the best coping method. 

 

It's pitch black outside, because of the later than usual finish, all that's providing light are the posts around the car park, to provide a sense of safety for the students. It didn't spread as evenly as they'd like though, leaving whole portions of blackness in between vehicles. He's holding his gym bag, having changed out of his tracksuit and slipped into his leather jacket and jeans, ready to turn in. He probably wasn't going to go to The Roach tonight, he needed to give his body a break. It's not as young as it used to be, and he's keenly aware that training as much as he does would get negated quite easily by his excessive drinking, so he's trying to have a few more days in the week where he doesn't do that. Light beer at home on the other hand, he judged as a lot less worrisome than hard liquor at the dive bar, so he'd probably partake in that instead, swapping poison for poison.

 

His apartment is again, rather lonely, but while he's busy having a long day at VMA, he has prerecorded TV he's missed that he usually puts on. Sometimes he actually watches it, but a lot of times it is just so his apartment has some damn noise in it - and so the dull light of the TV let him see where everything was without having to put the larger light on. It made drinking in the dark feel a lot better - a lot less headache was involved. Negan laid down on his couch, as he often did after a long day, before cracking open a room-temperature beer that he, again, was too lazy to refrigerate. It didn't taste bad though, this sort - anyway - he liked them cool, but a good, dark beer could hit the spot for him in a pinch, anyway.

 

Negan is surprised when his phone rings, because it's now one in the morning, and it's not only an ungodly hour, but most of his calls tend to be around work hours, or at least, daytime hours. Being that he's not actually sleeping, and only half paying attention to an episode of  _Always Sunny -_ he reached for it and picked it up. The name surprised him - he didn't actually expect to hear from you at all, the university paper sort of explained why you weren't around even if your commentary hadn't been there. You dealt with more than most, and when you weren't, you practically lived in a morgue, he could wager you wanted some alone time. He could give you that.

 

"It's one in the morning," is Negan's way of saying hello - he's not actually mad about the call, but he can hear some noise in the background - like a TV of your own, or something. It sounded like some program, anyway. He can almost picture your cringe down the phone line as he stared up at the ceiling pattern, back spread across the sofa with only his shoes kicked off. He didn't even bother to get out of his jacket yet, his body was just tired, and his muscles strained from the training he'd done in your absence.

 

" _Shit.... did I wake you...?"_ your voice sounds genuinely apologetic and concerned, but there's something off about it, before he hears you breathing down the line, sniffling a bit - are you upset? He wonders if you are, and doesn't really know how to take the fact that he's the first person you call when you are. Honestly, it sounds like you might be crying, your tone is kind of off in a way he cant pinpoint.

 

"Nah, I'm awake. I got in late, I missed you at training," he began with that, because if it was a 'what's wrong' - you might devolve into an unintelligible mess, and that's the last thing he needs. He'd rather have the facts first - all he really had was the newspaper, and the rumours wafting around from word of mouth by his team.

 

_"I w-wan....wanted to call you and say I'm sorry. I don't think texting apologies is good....practice.... but I didn' av my main phone,"_

 

While he was grateful for the apology, he didn't see why it had to happen at 1AM, especially when he had, rather sternly, told you to get your eight hours of sleep when he agreed to take you on, and this was a flagrant disregard for that fact.

 

"Apology accepted, but you should be getting your eight hours, this can wait," he sighed, closing his eyes and ignoring the aches reverberating through his bones between sips of beer. He noticed again, how strange and off you sounded. Perhaps it was that metric ton of medication that he knew you were on, it would explain the call. It almost sounds like you're slurring, or that for some reason, your tongue is tripping over itself even though you're enunciating quite clearly "-unless there was something else?"

 

" _...."_

 

There's some shuffling noises, and then something which sounded like things knocking into each other in the background, he cant really tell if you're in your dorm or not. What about the roommate? If you were upset, logically, wouldn't you talk to her? He's confused, but he isn't hanging up, eventually, he even hears what he thinks is you sighing.

 

_"Lizzie overdossssssssed,"_

 

You drag out the word down the phone line, and instantly, he knew that her name was the one that was redacted in the paper - the first thing he knows that he should ask, is if space-case is okay, but the paper said she was actually fine, so he knew that. Asking would just be formality, the question to pose after that, was to ask if you were okay, and clearly - you weren't. If you were, why would you be calling him in the first place?

 

"Are you okay?" Negan frowned, putting his beer to the floor and quickly lowering the volume of the TV.

 

" _I'm as good as g-...gold, Coach! This isn't my first rodeo!"_

 

Now your tone is very strange, it's not quite sad, it's not quite bubbly - he doesn't know if you're high off your mind on Zoloft and Xanax or what, but you're definitely not your normal self, even more so when he hears an unexpected giggle down the line, which, for the subject matter, is highly irregular. His "this isn't quite right" meter is going off like crazy and it's enough to make him slowly get up so he's at least laying upright.

 

"You sound fucking awful, what's going on?" he's blunt and to the point, only to be greeted by another giggle, to which he genuinely asks if you're high, which, after Lizzie overdosed - is something he doesn't want to think you'd resort to, but he cant really rule anything out.

 

" _She's like....the siff....sickth....SIXTH person, I know that's like, overdosed. It's fiiiiiiiiiiiiine. I'm fiiiiiiiiiine. I just - I wanted to call you because you're SMART - and you, like... you know stuff, about things. I'm not high I just had a little drink,"_

 

Wow. Whatever you're fucked up on, you're definitely fucked up - and it is now apparent to Coach Negan that he is actually living through the fabled "drunk dial" - something which he'd never actually been on the receiving end of before. He found himself smirking slightly when it dawned on him, and his inward alarm bells at least were assuaged. Oh yeah, this kind of seemed like something you might engage in, with what little he could infer about you and what he actually did know about you, and chances were - you'd cringe out of your body in the morning. Though, your English accent - drunk and slurring like this, he had to admit, sounded quite amusing - even a bit cute in how stupid it all was. You sounded far less intelligent like this, but it was oddly endearing.

 

"You should sleep this off, you're going to be so fucking mortified by this in the morning," sighed Coach Negan, rolling his eyes even though you couldn't see it.

 

" _I just...need to talk to you. Ask you. You're a sport...sporty pants. I was gonna say smartypants. Sportypants is better though."_  

 

More giggles.

 

"Ask me what?" he's surprisingly patient, it seemed you were rather forthcoming when you were drunk, and he was enjoying the inebriated compliments - if he was honest.

 

_"Is it good if Lizzie, um... leaves VMA?  She says it'll be safe...safer, if she does that. Her daddy gonna send her away for a while."_

 

Shit, he barely knew Lizzie at all, how did you expect him to have a fucking answer for this? It was oddly touching that you thought he held the answers to most things, and while he's quiet, you actually say something to that effect which makes his lips twitch into a small smile.

 

" _I'm sorry I just - you're very smart and I can't ask... I don't...  trust no one else at VMA and you're honest. You always have an -an answer..."_

 

Despite the line of questioning being a bleak one, he is smiling, however - he doesn't really have an answer for this. It makes sense for Lizzie Samuels to take a deferment from university for a while though, overdoses were not something you just bounce back from with ease, and if she'd done it on purpose, it usually signalled more issues under the surface. The fact was, Lizzie was your friend, and it probably wasn't the answer you'd want to hear, but he knows now that you've called him because he tells you things the way they are, not how you want them to be. He's always got an answer, but right now - he isn't wholly sure. Thankfully, it seems you're the rambling sort of drunkard, because you keep on talking, and giving him more to work with.

 

_"She does this a lot and she... she has this thing where she hears things but there's no actual THINGS - but I think, maybeee, if I ... uhm... loved her enough. The right way. She'd be okayyyyy, y'know?"_

 

Well shit, isn't that a bit much to lay it someone's feet? Still, you were drunk, and probably alone - at which point it occurs to him to ask where you are, because it could easily be another situation like what almost happened between you and Palgrave in The Roach, but when you say dorm, a part of him which he didn't even know was tense, relaxes for a moment. 

 

"I don't think that would have fucking helped," he said down the phone, frowning. Yeah, this definitely wasn't in his VMA handbook of conduct either, he was very much into uncharted territory with you, only for his mind to completely flatline with the following statement.

 

" _Do you think I should have just fucked her?"_

 

His mind goes utterly blank.

 

" _There was a moment - we have moments...  with the... topical... creamy...stuff.. I mean... fuck. I don't...like her that way, but she liked me that way. I didn't pay enough attention, I guess. If she got me out her system maybe... "_

 

Wow. He had no idea what you were talking about, but it was probably pretty hot - if he could get you to tell him about it when you were sober, he was definitely going to chase that line of questioning up - in the least creepy way he could manage, anyway. Holy shit, it's the first time he's hearing about these 'moments' - the only thing he'd really seen in terms of that was maybe the saddest but rather aesthetically pleasing make-out session you and Lizzie had in the bleachers, .

 

"This might be a shock, but you're actually not fucking responsible for space-case, and uh - you can't really expect to be able to fix fucking everything. Don't you think you have enough to fucking deal with?" he sighed, moving his head against the cushions to a marginally comfier position.

 

"Trust me when I say sometimes, bad shit just happens," it was a fact he'd been coming to terms with for a while now, and so the statement was heavy, and led to some small silence from the other end of the line. "-As hot as I'm sure it'd be, I don't think you should be fucking taking it on like you're somehow responsible or that you didn't do enough shit,"

 

See, this is why his life didn't have too many bumps in the road, he just stopped caring - and any concerns he did have, was because he'd taken on you, but being that you were his only non-team related responsibility-of-a-sort, it wasn't too much of a demand for him. In truth, it was something done as much for him as it was for you, you were probably the main source of excitement in his life at that point. Granted, it came with the heavy cost in that you were clearly suffering in order to do so, it all hinged on this incredibly dark, sad thing that had happened to you.

 

Put simply, it sucked.

 

_"....I feel like s..shit about it. They're gonna send her away....and I...and I.... I keep.... losing things..."_

 

So, you're an emotional drunk, clearly - and a lot more forthcoming when you are. You're repeating yourself a bit, talking in circles slightly, because your thoughts are tired, and disjointed. Luckily, he's actually quite good at deciphering drunkards, and he can read between the lines quite well. Usually, they didn't have much interesting to say, but with you, there are curious curdles of truth sewn into your rambles, and he's picking up on things that are usually kept under a cooler veneer. But it seems like you're desperate now, and wanting for something. You seem to think Coach Negan actually has answers, and it's strangely flattering that you trust him this much that he's the person that you drunk-dial in your time of need.

 

" _Time..... self--self respect.... friends.... "_

 

The thing is, you don't actually sound upset, you sound put-out, and accepting. Self-respect though, that catches his attention, the only thing Coach's tired mind can conclude is that you're referring to the events of the frat party, being that missing time was the thing you led with, he supposed it was that. Some part of him thinks he should be telling you to go to bed again, but he's filled his moral quota regarding that, after all -  _you'd called him,_ so anything you told him right now was on you, and it wasn't his job to stop you revealing something you'd ordinarily keep to yourself. He's a bit greedy like that, he feeds off of information.

 

"It's not your fault though, so fuck feeling like it is," he said shortly. He heard what he supposed was a sigh of relief down the line, followed by a short sniffle. It felt like he was meant to reassure you in some way, so he did - less out of a sense of obligation and more to remind you that he was still on the line, and to keep you talking. He's too curious to hang up on his end, this whole incident is a massive change in his schedule. 

 

" _Than-thank you C-Coach,....you're so smart.... I should...you always know...what to say..."_

 

"I'm a fucking multi-talented man," he replied dryly, glancing at the clock - time was getting on, you really should be in bed. Your words start looping again, and ordinarily it'd be annoying but it's actually a compliment - it's along the lines of saying that he's  _very smart -_ in different ways. It's actually making him actively resist the urge to chuckle, in case you stopped. You're rambling, and eventually, it starts to make less sense, but it's still reams of compliments between little drunken stammers and hiccups. 

 

"I could listen to how smart I am all fucking night but you should put your ass to sleep," he said after a moment, feeling a heaviness settle in his own eyelids. "Are you in bed? Lights off?" 

 

Somehow, that question sounds dirty despite how incredibly innocent it is. He actually doesn't mean for it to sound that way for once, which, considering how much of a sexual creature that he is - he usually would. Just the kind of remarks and the degrading humour he tended to use would have anyone listening assume that he's about to lead into something suggestive. He's actually not - it's a terribly innocent question.

 

 _"Yeah,"_ your voice is crackly, and tired sounding now.

 

"Good girl, now try to get some fucking sleep, okay?" he gave way to a little yawn down the line, and it signalled your drunk self to at least, try to halt your rambles.

 

_"Okay, I'm sorry again, I just... I really wanted to hear what you had to - had to say... you have a good...good rest of your night... nighty..night."_

 

"Goodnight, and I'll see you the fuck later," he said after a moment "-seriously. Get your ass to bed.  _Now."_

 

* * *

 

 

_Eight days._

 

That's the message you received on the burner phone. In eight days, you would be within reach of your cousins, which meant the moment they sent it, they touched base in the United States and needed a few days to sort out a few things before getting to where you are, geographically. It fills you with a certain amount of anxiety, and misplaced excitement - as scary as your extended family are. They're family, and you love them. The following morning, you feel horrible - aimless, hungover, disgusting - and your mouth tasted vaguely like you'd thrown up in your sleep and swallowed it back down, because your breath is disgusting too.

 

Lorelai was gentle when she woke you, being careful to keep the curtains drawn. She sank down on the edge of the bed and watched as you groaned and slowly woke up, glancing over at the smartphone that was turned onto its back, face down into the pillow. The room had a vague smell of alcohol, and without prying, she could see the empty bottle sitting upright in your undone handbag. There's some other stuff in there, but she actually isn't as massively nosy as her personality might suggest that she is, and it all looks like work in there anyway.

 

"C'mon sleepy head, get cleaned up," she said softly. When you opened your eyes, she was a little shocked and somewhat concerned to find them absolutely ringed red, like you hadn't slept, but more like you had cried through the night. It looked like that while she had gone out and stayed over at a friend's place - you hadn't been having nearly so much fun. She rationed it might be the Lizzie thing - she didn't bother to hide the fact that she was proud of what you did, but one look at you told her that it probably wasn't something you wanted to hear.

 

"Oh, honey - what...?" she watched as you very slowly sat yourself upright, frowning. "-What's going on? Come on, talk to me."

 

So you did.

 

You talked - now, you didn't want to invite her into the bullshit that was going on, but she knew there was something happening, and it felt like she was only ever seeing the aftermath. It was like that after the party at Fi Kappa Sci, it was like that when Trevor broke up with you, and now, you were drinking  _alone_ and witnessed your friend overdose. You're destroying yourself in a way that Lorelai can't quite pinpoint, and she's keenly aware that the reason you don't hang out or tell her things in the way that she'd prefer is because you hate the company that she keeps, and they, in turn, think you're creepy.

 

But now it's getting too much, and she needs to know that you're okay.

 

"Is this about Trevor again?" she pulled you into her very gently, your head leaning against the side of her chest as she did. 

 

You shook your head against her negatively - it was pounding, and there was a physical ache behind your eyeballs, you hurt all over, and your throat felt like it'd been ground down by sandpaper. You wondered, briefly, how your father managed to do this every single day of his life, because you, young and spry in your 20s - still struggled like hell with the aftermath. You felt sick about Lizzie having to leave, but even sicker with what she burdened you with on her way out, it felt like she foisted more responsibility upon you, and you could barely bare that weight as it was.

 

Unfortunately what came out of your mouth, was a mangled version of a heavily omitted truth. It made you sound  _bad_ to be fucking honest, you sounded disgraceful - and slutty, and irresponsible. You kept waiting for the judgement to show up on her face, but it didn't show up.

 

"i was just -  _so drunk -_ that I don't remember, and I know I just sort of... had sex, but it wasn't...good, and I tried to work it through on Trevor, and I got - I mean, I got pretty far. I could have done it - I mean, had him again. But something stopped me, like, it shouldn't be like that, like it should be a bit more special than it was, or that I just wouldn't...get what I need," you closed your eyes and resisted the urge to cringe. Yeah, not even a shrink could make sense of all this bullshit. You did frame it in such a way that consent seemed to be implied, and thankfully, Lorelai didn't seem to linger on it, but she did have a thoughtful sort of frown on her face.

 

"And then I heard about Lizzie and - "  _she left me some more bullshit to deal with "_ -it's all just so fucked. I thought I was just getting things back on track but I'm a mess, and I don't know what to do about it. Fuck - I think even drunk-dialled Coach last night," you picked up the phone with a hopeless expression and went to the call log, and showed that at an ungodly time, you had made an hour and a half call to him.

 

Lorelai, on the other hand, was hung up on the fact you had each other's numbers.

 

"Um, excuse me, when did this happen and why didn't you tell me? You're on speed-dial with the Designated Dilf?" you shook your head as she called him that, you knew she was doing it to make you smile, you knew Lorelai's type all over. Hers were the elfin type, with slender bodies but athletic muscle, but she had no problem teasing you to Hell and back about your - rather lax preferences, apparently. She called it  _Daddy Issues_ once or twice.

 

"He's giving me personal training now he's taken over for Coach Lowes," you said shortly.

 

"Personal Training, huh? Is that what they call it now?" she said, glancing at the duration and time of the call, while you groaned and tried not to think about how weird it was going to be when you saw the guy. You couldn't fully remember much of what you said, and in your dishevelled state you couldn't tell what you had dreamed you'd said, and what you'd actually said. You were the living definition of a morning regret right then and there.

 

"Lorelai, what're you getting at?" you sighed.

 

"Well, maybe the reason you're not getting what you want from Trevor is because Trevor isn't your usual type," 

 

You didn't even think you  _had_ a type.

 

"I mean, I'm looking at this, looking at what you're doing and looking at what's actually left of you and your steamy fling with Trevor," said Lorelai thoughtfully "-I'm not saying you're after that coach booty or anything but maybe what you're looking for is something he represents. I mean, you're drunk-dialling him at stupid-o-clock, so, maybe that? They say your drunk thoughts are your sober secrets."

 

Firstly, Lorelai was smarter than you thought, and secondly - you were way too trashed to be thinking this hard. Maybe she could do all the legwork for you, because you hurt too much to think.

 

"Lorelai, are you going Psychology 101 on me right now? If you are, you do the legwork, because I'm way too hungover to be going Inception deep right now," you sighed. Lorelai was in that phase still, even this far into the year now, where the glossiness of taking any kind of a psych class rather excited her and made her want to apply all the theory she learned. It was cute, if a little irritating.

 

"Okay, well, lets actually look at your problems instead of - " she grimaced at the bottle in your open bag "-drink them away,"

 

 _This, coming from party girl who'd rather go out than address her academic failings  -_ you thought snidely, before feeling bad about that passing thought. You watched as Lorelai took her own book-bag and got out the notebook - it was, funnily enough, the very same one which had been used to produce the infamous Guys Better Than Trevor Matthews list. You didn't know how Lorelai had a hope in Hell of trying to decipher the veritable shitstorm of emotions. It was hard too, when you were actively concealing things.

 

Fuck.

 

A thought occurred to you.

 

A sick sense of relief.

 

If Lizzie is being sent away, that's one less person you're lying to, and that just made you feel that much worse about everything, and you could hardly tell Lorelai that. You were going to have her sit there, try to work through your bullshit, but somehow manage to do it while working with half-truths, omissions and outright lies. Friendships, in a word, were exhausting for you. That was why you were drunk-dialling the coach at that ungodly hour, it wasn't for anything deeper than whatever Daddy Issue rabbithole Lorelai was going to go down, the fact of the matter is, he's the only person you've got left to trust. That's it, really.

 

You watched as Lorelai wrote down two names - Trevor, and C. Negan - before doing a long line down the middle to separate the pair. You leaned into her body, resting your aching skull against her. You could do with a coffee, or some water - instead, you took the painkillers you had, dry.

 

"Lets see, what is about Trevor that attracts you? I'm putting down his body because lets be honest, it's a pretty decent body," 

 

You groaned yet again, but didn't stop her - it's not like she was wrong, but wow did this feel shallow, you didn't know how much this was going to actually help, but it felt like it might go some way to bridging this gap with your roommate, which, in the absence of Lizzie, was something that you needed to do.

 

"We already know you think Coach has a hot old guy body so - that can go in the other one. Even-Stevens so far, right?"

 

"Right," you mumbled.

 

"Trevor - made me laugh," you said after a moment, mostly because you didn't want to linger on their bodies that long. Trevor was hot, no denying that, but it wasn't how hot Trevor was that drove you to pin him in the gymnasium. That's the difference here, and put simply, girls don't function like boys, the psychology in operation here is  _different,_ and if Lorelai kept barking up that tree, it'd be awkward fast, considering you were dissecting what led you to drunk-dial coach at 1AM. Lorelai seemed to think there was a deeper reason, and was trying to connect it to why you left Trevor Matthews strung up and weren't able to go  _all the way_ again. Clearly all of it compounded onto you and then the final straw was the incident with Lizzie and this, in her eyes, was a manifestation of your struggle to cope.

 

"And so did Coach,"

 

Even.

 

"Something made you call him instead of Trevor, or anyone else," 

 

Oh God, this was starting to feel like counselling but if the counsellor worked for _Cosmo._

 

"Coach kept me safe," you considered, after a moment - and at her stare, you quickly reminded her about the night after DV8 and the loose details about Palgrave, and how Coach had pretty much frogmarched you to his Volvo and took you back to campus, but not before getting you food, and paying for it.

 

"Trevor didn't," you said after a moment, it was at this moment, Lorelai moved you slightly against her, so that you would have to look at her. She was fond of doing things like that, and more than once, you felt like you were her little doll, or something. The concern is there, and you can see her adding things up in her head so you quickly say something before she starts forming connections.

 

"He didn't protect me from making bad decisions at the Fi Kappa Sci party, I know it's not his responsibility but he took me as a date, but didn't...." it wasn't fair to say he didn't  _mind_ what happened to you, he got beaten half to death because he didn't, but because you were implying something consensual took place at that frat party in order to protect Lorelai, the more this lie was beginning to spin out of control, and make Trevor look bad.

 

_Sorry Trevor, but I have to protect her and the best way to do that is that she doesn't find out about this. God, you are a better boy than this, I am so sorry about this character assassination I am just so fucking...sorry. You were good to me for a while. You made me laugh. I really did like you._

 

"-I mean, you wouldn't let your date go off with someone else, would you? I expected him to fight for me a bit, but he kinda...didn't, and sometimes a girl just wants their guy to get a bit jealous, y'know? Fight for them."

 

_There, now I look like a bitch and this is at least a bit more even._

 

Lorelai at least, didn't judge you, she did however think you were definitely a dark horse, and could now picture the infamous Trevor Incident happening in her head. She struggled with it at first, but she heard it from Roy, and then later, you - confirming all of the dirty details. It was becoming apparent to her that you had a whole other side to your character, and she was determined to find out more about it, because damn, she had to admit from what she was picking up - she was  _liking it._

 

"But Coach protected you from that Palgrave freak, and looked after you, which is a point for him and not for Trev, got it."

 

Was a stupid little list really going to help you?

 

"So, Coach represents security, and Trevor doesn't - and then, you find Lizzie in a state - and she's deferring from VMA - so you look for security and find it in him," Lorelai concluded.

 

_Yes good. No more pushing now._

 

"But now the big question," said Lorelai intently, causing you to frown a bit. At least the painkillers were feeling like they were working now or at the very least, taking the edge off. You followed her finger on the paper as she idly went between names, left to right, left to right. 

 

"Why," her finger slid to Trevor "-you called Trevor into the gymnasium to jump his bones for that sense of safety when he gives you none and didn't try anything with," she was silent when she slid her finger to the other name. Honestly, you should have seen this coming - especially with you ditching her at the game and the amount of time you spend in the Sports Hub for someone whose stuck in Geek Building, of course - she'd make assumptions. The idea didn't repulse you on instinct, but you did feel this queer sense of outrage, like you had to aggressively shut this down - and fast. You were allowed to have someone you could trust and not want to fuck, that had been why you blew up at Lizzie - and just...applying this to the coach? It seemed so _lascivious -_ but more like if you'd been accused of screwing the teacher at school when you hadn't - it felt  _that_ kind wrong.

 

Wrong wasn't even the right feeling. Incorrect, maybe?

 

"Uhm, because I have a history with Trevor and the sex was amazing?" you said flatly with a raised brow "-you're going a bit too Inception now. I don't want to jump Coach's bones because he's my  _friend,_ and...my coach," you finished lamely. "But then maybe some part of me reached the same conclusion you did - about Trevor not being able to give me what I want, so I stopped."

 

"Oookay," said Lorelai slowly, folding the notebook shut with a small smile "-And now for something out of _Cosmo_ and not a psych book, but maybe you're looking in the wrong places. A sense of security and feeling right with your body shouldn't have to come from a guy. Maybe you should get....reacquainted, with yourself."

 

You had no idea what she meant by that, but she was smirking - before sighing and shaking her head - still with that damn smile.

 

"Get up, shower, me and you are going to go out today, just for a couple of hours! I know you have work but, Papa unblocked my Platinum yesterday and - as much as I love dressing you in my small clothes - you don't have anything that you picked. Something that's  _you_ and new. Retail therapy usually cheers me up, and you look like you need some serious cheering up. Sooo, we should go to the mall, have a girl's day - and you can pick up a going away present," she smiled "-for Lizzie."

 

Fucking hell, she really knows how to sell something to you, she really does - the last bit clinched it. 

 

"Okayyy, okay, but I also have PT later - so only a few hours!"

 

* * *

 

 

The mall was, in a word, immense. It was teeming with people even though it was school hours, it didn't seem to halt the bustle of the shopping centre one bit. There's parents shopping without their kids mostly, but some university students probably, and people just milling around. Lorelai apparently had an entire agenda set out for the trip, she knew everywhere that she wanted to take you and knew how to do it quickly, planning it almost geographically so there wasn't a second wasted, or even a wasted step. Old ground would not be tread on, it was an entirely busy sort of trip. 

 

The first place she'd dragged you was a place that seemed to stock random designer labels - she drifted towards _Ralph Lauren -_ the prices of which, made you cringe. The cheaper designer rows of clothes you found were  _Mizrahi -_ which felt slightly more your speed, but just because Lorelai had free reign over a Platinum credit card, didn't mean that you did, and you said as much, only for her to roll her eyes.

 

"With me, it's first class all the way, and uh, anyway, it just lets me mooch all the loyalty card points, so, pick out like say....five things, and don't look at the price-tag, you're not allowed,"

 

You gawked at her - did she really have this amount of 'fuck off' money? Seriously? She was  _actually_ the living stereotype of a little Jewish princess, but, you - someone who struggled to even let people pay for a diner meal, found this entirely overwhelming. Honestly, you weren't used to someone being this nice to you.

 

"I'll pay you back, slowly," you offered, only for her to shake her head and sigh.

 

"I have more spending money than I know what to do with, what's the point of having something nice if you cant share it? Besides, you... I know you don't like it when people say it, but honey, you saved a girl's life. You've - clearly you haven't been having a great time of things since you got here. I just wanna be the one to do something nice for you," she said.

 

Fuck, you could have almost torn up, instead, you threw your arms around her, and felt guiltier for lying and omitting so much.

 

At the same time, it reminded you of why you had to protect her.

 

"Fucking Hell, I can't top this Lorelai, I really can't," you said weakly, as she picked out a dress that she thought might suit you, and pushed it against your smaller body, tilting her head as though she was seriously imagining it hanging off of your shoulders. "Some of this stuff is a thousand a pop, and we haven't even hit any other stores, five outfits from here are gonna run you a lot of money."

 

"Not if you stick to Mizrahi, which, it looks like you want to, and cheap is okay, but I demand you have at least two expensive outfits out of the five. Then we can go somewhere a bit more cape-casual for like, jeans and stuff, okay? I mean, I still wanna hit La Sensua - me thinks in the wake of our talk, it'll do you a world of good," at your expression, she quickly added "-it's like a Victoria's Secret but with more choice,".

 

You exhaled. Okay. You could deal with that. You'd never owned lingerie's before but you supposed you could entertain it - and be like the girls you used to stare balefully at on magazines, it could be at the very least, some fun. Grudgingly, you picked a few outfits, and opted to not stand anywhere near the cashier as Lorelai whipped out the card - you didn't even want to see the receipt, or the guilt may actually kill you.

 

La Sensua on the other hand, is a fucking experience and a half. It's a shop that has lingerie mannequins but the further you go into it, the darker the lighting tends to get. The changing rooms are incredibly well lit, but the curtains are black, like blackout curtains, and you notice that the further you get into the shop, the racier it gets. There's a point where you walk through a set of double doors, and it's actually an adult store under a subname "Annabelle's"  - enough that your face flames wholly red and you very quickly turn back and leave. You're definitely not a prude but you require some sort of warning before you stumble into a room and find an entire wall of rubber genitalia. 

 

There's a very cute retro swimsuit collection, with the wide-set underwear and the skimpy little strapless bikini-top. It was, also yes - polkadotted, the fact it reminded you vaguely of your moped kind of drew you to it. Your moped was cute, so, following that logic, so was the swimsuit. Besides, the Sports Hub had a usable pool - and Lorelai mentioned something about a beach trip during the holidays if you wanted to go - it'd be nice to have as a backup anyway, so you ended up buying it. The lingerie was a new experience, it felt.... expensive, and at first, not very you.

 

But, looking in the mirror, you turned to Lorelai after pulling her into the room shyly.

 

"Works better than the bubblegum one, you've got a good eye for this stuff," her eyes sparkled a little as she said it "-How does it feel?" 

 

She watched as your hands went up your hips with a strange sort of nervousness, she could tell you were utterly out of your skin and yet - the look in your eyes told her that it was actually something you wanted. Lorelai felt like she was corrupting you, just a bit, anyway.

 

"I feel like a grown-up," you breathed, blushing as you said it. It was such a stupid thing to say out loud, but it's true, often times you don't feel nearly as grown-up as you act, but in the changing room of La Sensua, you did finally feel like you were an adult. For a moment, you even hate your body slightly less with the encouraging looks from your friend.

 

"Honey, you're an adult," Lorelai smirked "-In fact, it's gonna get a lot more adult than this."

 

And five pieces of lingerie later, it comes to boil when she pushed you straight back into Annabelle's.

 

You were mortified for a moment, but after getting over the fact your ears were burning with pure embarrassment, it wasn't a totally awful idea. You didn't go into extreme, pornographic detail with Lorelai about what was going through your mind when you strung up Trevor, but it seems you inferred enough that  _this_ is what she meant by saying  _get reacquainted with yourself._ She was definitely somebody who read way too much Cosmo, but it's not a horrible idea. In a way, it might be good in at least, you wouldn't be hurting yourself.  Hurting yourself is something you seem to do often, without realising - but since the incident at the frat party, you hadn't felt like yourself in a while, and you treated your skin violently with the loofah since, making your showers twice as long and as hot as you could bare. You were only just now weening yourself from the habit, and while this was hardly a prescription solution, maybe you just needed to let yourself know it was  _okay_ to feel lascivious and not be struck by whatever it was that stopped you from acting out on Trevor.

 

Though, part of that was the thought that it should be more special after something so horrible happened, maybe you didn't need somebody else to make it special. Maybe  _you_ needed to make yourself feel special, instead of looking in all the wrong places.  

 

"Okay, fine, but then I'm never coming in here again," you hissed quietly - mostly out of embarrassment.

 

You left with a blacked out bag, and tied it up, before tossing it in with the more tame La Sensua bag, and then heading off to hit the last few things on the agenda, which somehow included being strong-armed into investing makeup. Lizzie's going away gift and some drinks to talk over how exactly you're going to fucking apologise for drunk-dialling the coach at 1AM.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 He actually does even more than he usually does by taking on some of Coach Lowes's burden while he's gone. Negan is actually the head coach, and isn't adverse to bullying other coaches, in fact, Coach Carr is actually a little afraid of him - which he thinks is quite funny. There's three strings of players for VMA, and Coach Negan trains the first string, who also have priority booking of anything in the Sports Hub, which is why you're usually present for their practices and not others. Coach Lowes teaches second string, which are the sort of backup players for anybody in the first string who cant play. Third string are basically the backups for the backups, so there is never a scenario when there aren't active team players available for games. 

 

Coach Negan sat in his office, staring at the player rosters - it was giving him a headache - but some asshole from UPenn was apparently going to fill in for Coach Lowes if his condition in hospital didn't improve but until that time, he's stuck with double the amount of responsibility. He doesn't mind - in fact, second string are practising harder than ever in an effort to get to first, which is good because their offensive line is actually pretty solid and he might be able to fish out a better quarterback than the asshole, Darius - that he's currently stuck with. The fact he completely kicked Trevor off the team and didn't just demote him speaks volumes of how lowly he thought of the kid's actions at the Fi Kappa Sci party, so it's a surprise that Coach Carr has snapped him up regardless and is going to put him on third string. At first, it annoyed him, like his authority on the subject was being questioned, but it's actually pretty fucking smart on Coach Carr's part - because Trevor makes a pretty decent running back. He'd be a fucking moron  _not_ to take advantage of it. 

 

He's about ninety percent sure Darius is juicing on something, and God help them if the NCAA decided to do an unannounced drug check, though he had a habit of finding out when they'd be and slyly saying something along the lines of having a dream about their impromptu arrival, which usually sparked about three days of raw sobriety. Darius on the other hand, he seemed like he was constantly on something, and all Coach Negan can think is - in his hay-day, this kinda shit just wasn't done unless you were actually in the NFL. It's crazy that this is an actual problem he has to deal with now - and he's stressing out trying to think of whether to demote him and take up Troy Everton to first string or not. It's actually highly stressful, because the previous head coach for VMA was a corner-cutter at best.

 

The smell of sterile peppermint gets under his nose, and already he knows whose in his office in the Sports Hub. It smells like his car now - and it's not a bad smell at all, he used to think it was a little sharp, but now it's strangely comfortable. You've been in his car long enough now that it smells like Christmas.

 

"You're early," he said, without looking up, clicking away at the plans he was now making for off-season.

 

He can detect the nervousness and lets you stew in it for a while, before inviting you inside with a silent hand gesture. When he looked up, he expected to see you in your lab-coat and little dress. Instead, yes, there was the staple lab coat, well-worn slit jeans which, as a trend, he still failed to understand - but you made them look good, he thought. There's the thick heeled boots he's used to now - and that lacy shirt - he lingered on it for a moment, before he saw the gym bag in your hand and smiled.

 

"Give it here, we're going out," he said, taking it and putting it under the desk.

 

It seemed today was not going to be PT, but another Coach Negan Agenda Day. You don't really feel that good about the idea of him spending money on you after your outing with Lorelai and how much he's already put out in being your only trusted staff member at VMA, it just made you feel bad. The look of discomfort was noticed, enough that he asked if you would prefer to reschedule, but you shook your head negatively.

 

No. However awkward it was, you did actually enjoy spending time with him, you deduced that in your last car ride.

 

"I'm sick of looking at this shit," he gestured to the computer, before logging it off and rising out of his chair to full height. You glanced at it and saw some names and wagered just from the lists that it was either to do with formation or team-building. You gave him an appreciative look, following him out to the car park quietly.

 

"Whatever you're doing, you're doing it well, it showed in the last game," it felt like you should say something to somehow tone down the frustration in his face, you're not sure if it did much, but he did put a warm hand on the back of your shoulder when you said it. 

 

"I'm doing twice the work for second string before they get some asshole from UPenn to fill in for Lowes," said Coach Negan after a moment. Instantly when you were in the car, the peppermint smell of your sanitiser which now stuck to his car intensified ever so slightly. It's good though, you're getting him to talk more rather than having to talk about yourself - you knew you would have to talk eventually though because that's kind of what your little sessions together were. They were your opportunity to talk honestly and freely because clearly, there was no other way that you could, and coach for whatever reason, was sympathetic to that.

 

"Where are we going?" you asked curiously, and in truth - he didn't really know. He just needed to take a break somewhere, and now that you'd been in the area for a little while, he decided to surprise you, and actually ask where  _you_ wanted to go.

 

"I don't know, it's your choice today. I just need to get the fuck out for a bit," he admitted.

 

Huh, it seemed like you weren't the only one having a long week. You frowned and stared vacantly out of the windshield, letting out a low hum of thought before getting your phone out and googling a little, you knew of some more places now - there was the art district called Birdhouse Way - which, while Coach did not at all seem like the arty type, you wanted to go and see what it was like there, and said as much. In truth, he'd driven through it but never really stopped there very often, it seemed like the kind of place reserved solely for what he came to know as hipster douchebags, that said, every single store in the place looked incredibly nice from the outside, the whole place reeked of that gentrification trend, you could still see the places that they intentionally left shitty just for the artistic contrast, or maybe to argue that they weren't pushing out the poor population whose area they completely stole for the upper middle-class sorts.

 

It was still a very visually intriguing area to go through though, he just never really had a reason to.

 

The ride was quiet, and so he put the radio on, what he didn't expect, was for you to inch your head closer to his arm and it didn't register until the side of your head was gently nudged against it. He didn't stop you, or move much, considering both hands were on the wheel, but he did make a comment.

 

"Long week?" tiredness might explain it, and you just let out a low noise of agreement. 

 

It was a long week, but the truth was, Lorelai's commentary aside - it was true that you sought security from somewhere, and seemed to find it here. You weren't one to overstep the bounds first unless it actually felt like it was okay to do, but you were definitely a physical sort of person, and you had relished in the small and simple, lazy comfort that leaning against him gave you. You were a bit nervous to do it, but it seemed like he didn't actually mind, and so long as he didn't mind or recoil, you would do it. 

 

You wanted Trevor to make you feel right with yourself, but with Coach Negan, you just wanted to feel safe.

 

"Do you mind?" you asked hesitantly.

 

He didn't miss a beat in his reply.

 

"On the record - no, I do not mind girls layin' on me," he smirked, without taking his eyes off of the road, he already knew you were flush. He could feel the heat of your face through his clothes and his arm. You didn't recoil though, his admission just told you that it was okay, but his overt and sexualised nature made everything sound suggestive. It was his nature, you knew that, but it was Lorelai's earlier commentary that made this feel a little bit more important than it should. You found yourself moving your head a little so the whole right side of your face pressed against his tremendous bicep, and sighed contently.

 

If Coach Negan didn't know better, he'd say you were snuggling in, and viscerally speaking - it was rather nice. Just - the sensation of a littler person against him, relying on him. Without getting too deep, he could tell it just came with the territory of being the kind of guy that he was - the sort that liked to feel top of the pack, ruling over and protectively hoarding over smaller things. It wasn't that meaningful probably, but it was definitely the same sort of feeling.

 

"Just don't get too fucking comfy, we're nearly there,"

 

There were so many things unsaid for the moment being, but when he parked up, there was a moment of warm and strangely comfortable silence between the pair of you. He took the key out of the ignition but he didn't move to get his belt off, and neither did you. Glancing at you, he saw that your eyes were shut and if not for the fact you answered to anything he pointed at you, he'd think you had just nodded off against his arm. It seemed that you didn't heed his words, and went out of your way to get rather comfortable, and he didn't want to get rid of that visceral cosiness straight away.

 

"We're here," your voice was quiet when you pried your eyes open, wondering why he didn't say anything.

 

"We should probably talk about last night," he brooked the subject as gently as he could manage, but you bristled against him regardless and it shattered the air of comfort and quiet bliss so quickly that he almost regretted bringing it up.

 

You slowly raised your head up off of him and undid your belt.

 

"We can walk and talk,"  

 

He wished you hadn't moved - he'd been the one to get comfortable.

 

* * *

 

 

He watched you leave the lab coat in the car and walk alongside him, fingers digging into your jean pockets and pressing against your thighs from how form-fit they were. For a moment, he marvelled at how calm you appeared to be. Coach knew that his words had set something off - that you were nervous, he could tell from your body language, but if he didn't know you - he wouldn't be able to tell. He wondered how it was, that you were able to do that. To have so many faces. On one hand, you were a drunk, desperate, mess that leaked a need for security from every pore of their being, on the other - you're devastatingly intelligent, a steel-stomached sort of girl who deals in death and cold facts, and then - you're also the girl who lured Trevor with what he can only guess was a  _very_ sexy photo, and did all manner of sexual things to him in that gymnasium - you were also that dirty girl.

 

You're the girl who sobbed her eyes out in his Volvo and snuggled into his arm.

 

Coach really isn't sure which side he's going to see today - and what're the ones that you actually show him, and wonders what's real - and what isn't. He liked to think he got the realest side of you though, because it's not like you could afford to expose it to anybody else - you're involved in too many things. You must spend every day breathing in truth and exhaling out lies just to keep all of your inner turmoil under the hood. It's tremendous, but it speaks volumes of your character. He'd wonder how trustworthy of a person you could really be except, you were very open with him in private, even when dealing with your more unstable family members. That had to count for something.

 

"So I drunk-dialled you last night," you said flatly - okay, it seemed like he was dealing with your more clinical side today. That was fine - he could deal with clinical, but clinical-you, usually meant you found whatever you had to deal with, harder to process, and he didn't need a psychology degree for that, it became self-evident at the gas station.

 

The two of you are walking in lockstep now, side by side. People mill past - and yeah, they're the kind of people you'd expect to see in the arts district, smattered amongst the regular. There's berets, beanies, hideously dyed bags and vintage everywhere, but the sidewalk is lined with painted art that people step over casually. Occasionally, you feel yourself get a bit pushed, and find yourself walking closer to Coach to avoid it, he noticed - and made an effort to take shorter strides so you could walk with him easier.

 

"You did," his tone betrayed his amusement, because he didn't find it to be as grave or as serious as you were clearly about to take it.

 

 "Right so, foremost - I'd like to apologise for that and promise you that it will  _never_ happen again. I'm also sorry if I said anything that embarrassed or offended in any way," it sounded rehearsed, and it was rather stiff as apologies went. It covered everything but it betrayed to him that you clearly thought about this far too much and probably didn't remember much, if anything, of what you said and were covering all of your bases. If he had to guess, you probably went over this in your mind a lot until you found the perfect words.

 

"Was that rehearsed?" he asked bluntly, watching as faint embarrassment crept up on your features despite your efforts to remain serious.

 

"Just a bit," you admitted "-but uh, I don't really remember much of what I said and what I do, kind of mingles with dreams, it was pretty late and I was pretty trashed,"

 

God, that made you sound so bad, but the best thing about Coach Negan is, you never had to hide your ugly side.

 

"I wasn't... I didn't - I mean, I wasn't too... embarrassing, was I? I didn't...say anything...y'know...?" honestly, you don't know what you were scared you'd said. Maybe you'd gone on and ranted about Lorelai and her weird insinuations - that'd be the worst, maybe you pissed all over the coach-mentor boundaries in a way that was unforgivable, or maybe you'd just been flat-out cringey. Coach thought immediately to the questions you'd asked about Lizzie and the deeper relationship behind the friend dynamic, he remembered how it got him alert like a cold blast of water too. He could wager that'd probably embarrass you, because unlike Trevor, you had no sort of intimate history with the coach, and so it'd probably just make you mortified. That said, he still struggled to believe you would get so shy over it after witnessing what you'd done in that gymnasium. He just really struggled to understand what he was dealing with. 

 

Maybe it was the fact he was older, and in an authority position - and that you two were still working on their mentorship thing you had going on that made it easy for Coach to embarrass you? 

 

 _She thinks I have a hot body so - being attractive to her and then bringing this sort of thing up might be a factor here -_ he mused, though it made him feel even more egotistical than usual to assume that.

 

"No," he said after a careful moment. Maybe he wouldn't tell you what you said in much detail, not unless you led the conversation to that intimate kind of a place. "Though you did seem very upset about space-case, which is super fucking understandable. I think you just were very sad, and very wasted,"

 

"Was that really it? Oh - oh God, I didn't cry, did I?" you asked with a worried frown.

 

"No, you didn't, in fact - you giggled a lot and complimented me nonstop - it was actually pretty fucking cute," he said offhandedly - he thought that might be a safe way of putting it, and in truth, in a warped kind of a way, it had been cute. "-as drunk-dials go it could have been a lot fucking worse,"

 

You relaxed a bit, before feeling yourself get brushed incidentally by another person - causing you to reach out for the larger man and wrap your small hand around his closest arm. It seemed a bit overly personal to grab his upper arm, and it seemed really, really intimate to go for the hand, so instead, you found yourself wrapping your fingers around his wrist, hopping forward to match his strides and to get yourself out of the path of the bustling community. There was apparently a pay-by-weigh vintage sale and it explained the onslaught of people.

 

"I guess," you mumbled, glancing up at him when you grabbed his wrist - he didn't jerk away, put moved his arm closer to pull you out of the path of a small crowd of rather hip looking teenagers.

 

"Don't get crushed, short-ass," said Coach Negan shortly, a little smirk on his face. "Come on - lets get out of the crowd," 

 

Yeah, this felt pretty strange, but not the bad kind of strange. It was good to hang out with coach as more of a friend rather than out of emergency, clearly he needed a break and you were sick of thinking about your own problems but not be able to share them. If not for the fact you were brilliant at what you do, you doubted you'd be able to maintain your academic performance while your problems built up around you to the point of suffocation. It was a welcome break though - from the smell of alcohol, detergent and the nonstop reading. You'd already finished over 500 pages worth of the books for semester one, and moved into semester two. In fact, you found that even as premed degrees go, with Mort Sci at VMA being probably one of the best and least appreciated premed course choices, you were _still_  woefully under-challenged. It's a shame, because when you aren't drinking and medicating, one of the best diversions is doing work and you found the work to be far too easy. The only thing that wasn't was perhaps, Pathology, and that's only because you found it the most interesting, and so kept on digging deeper and deeper until you were far out of what was expected for a premed student.

 

In other words, you're highly strung, vastly unhealthy and will do absolutely anything to avoid the thoughts surrounding the events of Fi Kappa Sci's party.

 

"That place looks as good as any, I mean it's that or one of the fucking three artisanal cheese places we passed, and who the hell needs that much cheese anyway?" you asked with a frown.

 

"Artists, apparently," Coach replied, a small smile on his face - this was nice, it was nice listening to you goof on things. He didn't hear it often enough, and decided that he rather liked it.

 

There was actually a vegan pizza place nearby, and while neither of you were vegan, it had some pretty decent seating, and you wouldn't be adverse to trying a slice with some fries. The impromptu intervention from the coach back at Edgar's Diner seemed to have gotten you back into better consistent eating habits, even if they still weren't great, it was good that it was done before you developed a serious issue with your food and appetite size. You opted for the spicier one you could find, and were thankful this was the kind of place that served slice by slice, with sides instead of a whole entire pizza.

 

You didn't let go of his wrist until you were sat opposite from each other, it felt a whole lot less strained than Edgar's Diner - but that was probably because there wasn't a psychotic miniature breakdown preceding it.

 

"I'll cut to the chase, my cousins will be here in eight days, that's all they said," you were blunt, and to the point. There was no segway into it either, no preparation, just bluntness. He can appreciate that about you, you're not a woman to skirt about things if you didn't have to. 

 

"And how do you feel about that?" was his calm response, he was remarkably measured and found that what worked best was letting you talk after some gentle poking. For as many faces as you seemed to have, with coach, he liked to think that you were an open book, and even when you were hiding things, he could tell that you were.

 

"Terrified," you said shortly, "-I need to see what they dig up on the PhDs and Eichmann, if anything - before we make any moves. Never make a move without having all the facts in hand first. I mean, if they're involved in something, we find that out first, and then, whatever my cousins offer - whatever we end up going through with, I have to keep their tempers in check and make sure this doesn't screw my future,"

 

"Screw it how?" he wondered, helping himself to the plate of fries which it seemed that again, you two were sharing. The food-sharing thing seemed to be a trend, and somehow, always felt a little bit more intimate than it probably should.

 

"Well, I want to get on that program the PhDs are on," you said shortly "-and before, or after that, I don't know - I need to get a residency after my degree in the hospital wing, and y'know, that might be easier achieved if I don't piss off Eichmann's buddies in the department. I need to see exactly how far the corruption goes," he watched as you began to do that thing that you did - slicing down the pizza with a knife and fork with that queer sort of surgical precision.

 

"I'm just... impressed that you have space in your mind to think about your future," said the man after a long moment, causing you to look up at him with a confused expression. What else would you think about? For the longest of time, back in Cheshire, you didn't think you even had one until you started surpassing your peers and getting noticed for the  _right_ reasons.

 

"It's just, time would stop for most fucking people after.." he wanted an elegant way of putting it, but there wasn't one "-all that bullshit at that party."

 

You looked away from him, watching the more carefree people milling around Birdhouse Way and wishing that you could be one of them.

 

"Time did stop turning for me, for a while. But what good does that do? I worked hard to get here, I worked hard for everything I have and I cant put the breaks on that just for them. All I can do is drink, cry and hurt myself but it doesn't make it better, about the only thing to be done is cope and continue. There's not many other choices, Coach." yes, you're an open-book, just for him perhaps - but you were.

 

Huh, it explained a lot, but clearly you were struggling with the 'coping' part ergo the drunk-dial. He had to admire the fortitude, and he did - it took a really big set of balls, and boy - did you have them. Fuck, it kind of put some of his second stringers to shame, because he knew he had one - Marcel? - who would sooner break a bone on purpose to avoid playing in a live game and would prefer to simply take all of the accolades that came with being on the team rather than work and put in effort. They could learn a thing or two, he thought. Then again, it also took a particular kind of person to do any kind of premed degree.

 

"I have to tread carefully here, with whatever I end up telling my cousins. It could fuck everything up for me if I don't, the last thing I need is my future on that very same program jeopardised. I'm a shoe-in for it just by interning, it's supposed to inspire potential premed students and it's for people who plan to be more than morticians," you said shortly. Coach was intrigued, he did ask "why Mort Sci?" but he didn't actually expect for you to be this methodical and sure about your future. "You can call it jumping the gun, or not doing things in order, but the fact is, VMA gets me uniquely where I want to be,"

 

"Some of my second stringers could probably learn a fucking thing or two from you," Coach mused to you "-most freshmen lose their motivation at this point in the year but you with all of the unique levels of fuckassery tossed your way haven't lost sight of it once, that's pretty impressive," he slid some pizza down his throat with far less grace than you as he spoke, yet you found yourself entirely captive by what he had to say. It was just that by virtue of the years he had on you, and how cocksure his tones were, how he seemed perfectly and arrogantly in control of everything around him, made it that much more reassuring when you sought out his comfort and he gave it to you.

 

"I'm uh, switching out for cell biology classes in terms of minor, Mort Sci first year classes are a pretty good way of finding out where you want to go - medical study wise. I looked at the VMA requirements, for the uh, medical side of the Science Institute. I focused on this place because it's literally the best in the country, that's why my scholarship means so much. If I keep doing as well as I am, I get on the Dean's List, and if I continue to keep doing well and pass the MCAT with good enough results, there's at least seven different scholarships that fund an extra four years in the medical school part of the Science Institute. My internship right now can even kind of count as some of the mandatory experience I need after residency training. Do you understand how much rides on me not fucking with the PhDs?" you ran your fingers through your hair, playing with it at the ends as you frowned in intense thought, completely missing the look of unrestrained appreciation from the older gentleman.

 

"I'd be with the student doctors after my degree, assuming I pass the MCAT to get in the med sector and get those additional scholarships to cover what the Charles Rangel doesn't after my actual degree. The experience is invaluable - and God, that's not even without factoring in the Masters program being a travelling Body Farm. No other fucking medical school can offer that! Most of them have you doing hospital and clinic training and only that. You need at least a year of forensic pathology experience - a fellowship or something like that - instead, VMA gives you the best fucking Body Farm in the country. If I do well, VMA doesn't just qualify me, it  _over_ qualifies me, and if you do well enough, you're basically set for life. That's why I work so hard, that's why I don't want to fuck up with Eichmann. It takes a lot, but I need to be able to stay here and do everything I want to do if I want to be a forensic pathologist. The degree I'm on right now? This is the easy part," you scoffed.

 

"Why else do you think I have time to party and get drunk? This presents slim to no challenge for me, it never has, and I've been studying for the MCAT since I decided I was pursuing sciences in school. I don't like asking my cousin's for help, I don't like having things just  _given_ to me. I thought I'd be an ME, but now I'm thinking that the residency requirements of being on-call two to three times a week and working with living people - having their lives in my hands, might be a bit much. I uh, had a chance to talk to some student doctors after Lizzie...." you trailed off, before sighing and shaking your head. "-So the only good thing to come out of this week is knowing where my future is going, too bad I'm losing everything on the way,"

 

"Focus on what you're gaining," was Coach Negan's immediate response, this harked back to the drunk-dial, where you admitted to this sensation of constant loss. "-You seem like you're hurting, and I get why. You were pretty fucking upset last night, and space-case leaving probably made it worse. But you don't need her, you don't  _need_ anyone who didn't help you get here in the first place, this is gonna sound cold as fuck but - the most important player in your life is you. You've got about half of that figured out but if you keep hurting for others, it's gonna slow you down. You've got enough to push back against, don't make it worse."

 

Your response surprised him, and you struck him with that strangely soft, doe-eyed expression of yours.

 

"That's a lonely way to think," you used to think something like that, too. "-deep down we all just want to be around people like us.  It's why people separate by major. But I see what you're getting at. I do. It just..." he watched you poke the pizza "-it sucks."

 

"Well," Coach began - when it seemed like his rather sound advice wasn't perhaps the most cheerful, he felt a strange need to abate it - to soften it somehow, which is something he isn't in the trend of doing very often. "-I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, and I'm sure you have plenty of other friends?" he practically scoffed at the thought of you not having any more than the ones he knew of. "Girl like you? Of course you do, and if you don't, you'll make them easy," have them eating out of your fucking hand, if only you knew how to use that unwieldy charm of yours.

 

"Girl like me?" you said quizzically "-I'm gonna assume that's a compliment,"

 

"You're pretty, petite and smell like peppermint, who the fuck wouldn't be your friend?" he said bluntly "-you're good at what you do, I mean fucking hell, space-case pretty much sold you like you were Doogie fucking Howser. Quit selling yourself short, short-ass,"

 

You blushed utterly now and you couldn't hide it no matter how hard you wanted to bury your head in your plate. Coach thought you were pretty and smart, and coming from him, whose judgement you seemed to value above most others, it meant a lot, just as much as if it had come from Professor Mattius. He noticed the response his words got too, and had to admit to himself that he rather enjoyed the power of it - to have that hold over somebody and make them turn completely scarlet with just a few words.

 

"I don't know about Doogie Howser being accurate," you mumbled shyly, only for him to bring his phone out of his pocket with a little cocky smile.

 

"You know, one of my newfound powers is that I can access student GPAs, right? Student-athletes have to maintain a 2.0 or above or they cant play on any sports team, if they don't and I let them play, my ass gets chewed out about it. So I can access them just to see how they're moving along, not in much detail, but I can - and it says here that you are...hold on, last name?." he tapped his phone a few times while you sat there mutely after giving it to him, looking up at him in disbelief. He had to be breaking some kind of a rule or something, but it didn't seem like he cared, being that he was staff, he could get away with it - it seemed.  "-maintaining a solid 4.0 - damn, you're a fucking smartypants, aintcha?"

 

"You... you have to be breaking a rule here," you breathed, especially since you weren't playing on any formal team and women's boxing didn't have varsity games or anything, it was just a club - even if he wouldn't get in trouble, it was probably not allowed. Probably.

 

"Oh, as if you've never broken a fucking rule," he scoffed, a self-assured glint in his eye when he spoke, in fact, he leaned in when he said this, giving you a knowing look. It made your heart skip a little, because even though you were much closer now, he still had that intimidating, dark, severe stare that had rendered you almost squeaking when he frogmarched you off of the pitch the first day you met. 

 

"In fact, from what I hear, it's kind of your thing," his lips twitched into a smirk "-I was putting shit away in storage when you decided to maul Trevor."

 

Your instinct is to be utterly mortified, you didn't know that he'd been watching! If you'd have known that, there was a chance you wouldn't have done it. The thing was, you couldn't even definitively say that you definitely wouldn't have done it had you known. Your behaviour was about that level of concerning. You felt the blush staining your cheeks intensify, and your whole body radiated a sensation of heat which he thankfully couldn't detect, being sat across from you as opposed to beside you. It's difficult to look him in the eye, but you force yourself to anyway. His expression isn't judgemental, in fact, he seems amused - maybe even a little coy -  _he's teasing me -_ you realised, and coach being the coach, absolutely nothing was off-limits to him, it seemed.

 

"Don't look at me like butter wouldn't melt," you mumbled, slipping into English idiom briefly "-you can't tell me  _you've_ never done something for the thrill," instead of apologise, and otherwise show your mortification besides your uncontrollable bodily response, you opted to double down on it. If you don't - he'll just bring it up more and keep on teasing. You knew how boys worked, it didn't matter how old they were.

 

You returned his coy look with one of your own, shy smile fighting its way onto your flaming features.

 

"I'm not apologising," you maintained "I don't regret it," you sucked in a breath and pulled your eyes away, instead, staring deeply into the iced tea that was ordered to round off the small meal "-and if you happen to have seen a little more than you bargained for well..."

 

You trailed off, before clearing your throat and sipping down some of the peach flavoured iced tea, you were actually trying to mimic the coach's own cocksure tones and you weren't really sure if it was working, but you were trying. 

 

"-I hope you at least enjoyed the show," you said bluntly, causing the older man to give you a somewhat shocked look, which quickly morphed into one that was oddly pleased. The coy sort of twinkle returned back to his impossibly dark eyes and for a moment, you wondered if you'd chosen the right approach or if you should have ignored everything you knew about boy-brains and not rise to his bait. His body language seemed to have changed almost imperceptibly - but it had, teeth sinking to his tongue as he reigned in a very deep sort of chuckle, two could play your game, and it seemed he momentarily forgot his concern about boundaries. It was definitely a friendship now - but maybe that wasn't a bad thing, and what you'd said earlier might have rang a bit true even for Coach Negan.

 

_We all want to be around people like us._

 

"It was kind of fucking sexy, if you don't me saying," the mirth didn't leave him as he said it, and he could tell that you were squirming but stubbornly unremorseful for what you'd done to Trevor, refusing to cave under the immense embarrassment you were displaying. "I didn't think you had it in you, Shortstop,"

 

Coach isn't actually sure what he's trying to do here, if he's trying to melt you slightly because your bodily response is hilarious, or if he's trying to actually establish a peer-to-peer sort of camaraderie, it kind of feels like the latter though, like he's trying to redefine what's okay to talk about with him. If you're friends - you should be able to talk about things like this with him, even if it is a little odd. You were also the one who decided to do it in a public place, you were the thrill-seeker here, the active antagonist. Coach, with the kind of potty mouth and over-sexual nature he had, may very well have perverted aspects to himself, but nowhere did they play into him witnessing what you'd done to Trevor, because  _you_ made that happen. He didn't go out seeking it, but the fact he called it sexy - well, was it? You didn't know. Some of it had to be, in order to lure Trevor to you in the first place, but you didn't think the performance was sexy so much as it was just angry and clumsy, but hell, you couldn't see it from the outside. You just weren't used to putting yourself and "sexy" in the same sentence out loud. You have to have some sort of vanity-ego to do that.

 

"Well, I don't know about sexy, but if you aren't burning out your retinas, I'm calling it a win," you said, your response was humble, but betrayed that lack of self-esteem which he was becoming more aware of. 

 

 _If only you could have fucking heard yourself -_ is Coach Negan's passing thought, because you sounded like something ripped right out of fantasy, but he doesn't air the thought - he doesn't want to be creepy.

 

"Definite win, I don't think Trevor's forgetting that shit any-fucking-time soon," he chuckled, and for a moment, the conversation is actually quite light, until he senses a certain severity in your tone when you respond.

 

"Good," your voice has a sharper edge to it "-I'm over letting people treat me however the hell they want to," - and though you're still flush and small seeming in the man's eyes, there's a hardness underlying your tone that he has to respect - so he raised what remained of his drink with you, saluting the statement, before downing it and finishing up. Again, he pays - and you know better than to argue, but after what Lorelai did for you recently, it feels especially bad to have more people spend money on you. It was going to have to be something you got used to - you come from a place where you aren't used to such kindness, or anything for free. 

 

"There's one more thing," he says, as you two walk in lockstep and you make that instinctive grab for his wrist, the crowds have lessened exponentially now, but with every safely broken boundary - it felt like a step backward if you didn't. Plus, he did declare in an around-a-bout sort of way, that he was your friend, and you held hands and locked arms with Lorelai and Lizzie all the time, right? All of your friendships had been intensely physical and the only reason this one wasn't was due to the fact you saw him as someone above you in terms of authority and that yes, he's older. The fact he's a guy doesn't even play into it - because you're equally warm with Ravi too, it just feels strangely important when you're doing it with Coach Negan though, like you're slowly bringing him down to your level.

 

"I want you to write down the shit that you eat and drink, and yeah, that includes booze," he said shortly "-I mean shit, you're in college, college kids drink. I got that, but keep track of it. You sounded wasted last night - were you all alone?"

 

Huh, you didn't understand the reasoning behind the line of questioning, and the confusion showed.

 

"I - yeah, Lorelai was out at a party, it was just me,"

 

Coach shook his head in disapproval, he was keenly aware what he was about to say was going to make him a massive fucking hypocrite, but he was having a "Do as I say, not as I do," adult sort of moment because seeing this sort of deterioration in somebody half his age was rather like staring into a circus mirror, it just shouldn't be happening - you're already breaking. In a way, Coach Negan's hell has been long since over, he's mourned and he's moved on as best he can, even if he's not very good at it - but you? You seem to exist in a perpetual state of suffering, and he doesn't know how to stop it, but if somebody doesn't put the breaks on it - a lot of potential is going to be wasted.

 

"Now that's the start of a bad habit, drinking alone - you're gonna have to put a stopper in that shit, right fucking quick, alright?" his tone is harsh, but not as harsh as it could be - he's not shouting, but it's definitely a raised and almost aggressive sort of tone that causes you to squeeze his wrist tighter without realising. "You'll get enough empty calories going out drinking with your friends, but don't rely on it as a crutch at home, alone," - that's how he justifies it. Training. Sports. Your body has to be healthy for that if nothing else, but he doesn't have any reason for lifting the wrist that you're holding and manipulating your arm so it's pulled out ahead of him after you two stop outside of a coffee hut for a moment. You flinch as his large, warm, calloused hand goes to your lacy, tight sleeve and yanks it up to your elbow.

 

Immediately, he's greeted by fading purple bruises and splotches of red, but mostly he's focused on what was clearly a large scratch that had drawn blood, which was covered by a large, translucent film dressing so you could make sure you didn't pick up anything in all of the lab work you did. There are little "C" shape curvatures littering your arm which are clearly from nails - yours, and the other arm probably isn't that much better. 

 

"This too, this shit has to stop," he said sternly - he didn't have the kind of tools to deal with this, but being that you wouldn't see anybody in the university for obvious reasons and a fear they may be obligated to report certain things, somebody had to say something and clearly it had to be Coach Negan because he's the only one who knows just how much your emotionally drowning.

 

"It's a nervous habit," you said lamely, because you'd done it as long as you could remember, and the pain was a welcome, warm distraction. Sometimes it felt deserved, other times it just felt like something you could focus on besides what was driving you to sink your nails into your skin, and the bruising often came while you were deep in thought, twisting at the skin. That, to you, always felt like you just took hand-wringing to a new level. You didn't really consider it self-harm until you realised just how badly it looked to somebody on the outside, like the coach.

 

"Well, find a fucking new one that doesn't involve hurting yourself. Don't be your own worst enemy, you have enough real ones," he said darkly, in a tone that could make you shudder if you were of lesser constitution, something about  _his_ particular deep, smarmy, confident baritone telling you off and  _his_ particular flavour of American accent really got to you in that moment, and for a second, you realised this is probably close to what some of his team feel when they're getting told off by him. 

 

"I'll try," you breathed, feeling rather dwarfed by the man's authority as he gave you a critical look with those dark, tunnel-like eyes of his.

 

"I'll check," was his reply, though it sounded more like an ominous warning "-and all the shit you're eating and drinking? I want to check that too, so bring it with you when we schedule something, got it?" 

 

He was treating you like he really was training you, but it didn't feel like training you was the reason he was doing it - it was almost like he cared, and you wanted him to care. You looked up at him with that doe-like stare of yours which he always found to be far too transparent. The fact you were an open book was lovely as much as it was something absolutely and utterly disarming. Yes. That's the best way to put it. Coach Negan found you completely and utterly disarming and it's probably what Trevor saw in you too - and others. Lizzie and Lorelai maybe, perhaps even Palgrave for all of those few seconds he laid eyes on you, even Mike the bartender. The gas station guy - Shaun - you'd disarmed him and not even noticed it - and you were doing it right now. All it took was the vulnerable stare but coupled with the fact that he knew that for better or worse, you absolutely trusted him like you trusted nobody else at VMA, it seemed like you were wearing your heart rather openly.

 

Coach Negan flinched - mostly in surprise, because he's not a flincher, when you pull your arm out from his grip aggressively but almost in the same motion, push yourself forward before he realised what was happening, instead of responding verbally to his aggressive demands.

 

You're only doing it because he said in the car that it was okay to touch him, and you took it to mean it'd be okay if you hugged him. You really, really wanted to when you were upset, but you didn't quite feel like you two were in a place where that was okay to do, but after he called you out on your arms, it felt like perhaps one more boundary got stripped away, and it was his doing, not yours.

 

"Oh!" it leaves his throat before he can stop it, looking down at you, he can see the top of your head and feel you wrap your smaller arms around his wide, muscular torso. The reflex is automatic, but his much larger arms coil around you with ease, locking you against his broad, barrel chest - if it was meant to be a quick embrace, he'd certainly stopped that. He felt the side of your face pressing into his white shirt from his partially unzipped VMA tracksuit. You soaked it all in - and as hard-muscled and utterly gigantic the man was, there was something to be said for this embrace - it was tight, warm, secure and washed you in the mixture of masculine musk and faint _Old Spice_ soap or cologne - it wasn't unpleasant, honestly, it's kind of what you would imagine a guy like him might smell like. The fact he curled his arms around you, settling near the small of your back, instantly relaxed you because it meant the gesture was reciprocated, and he wasn't pushing you off. 

 

"What's all this for?" his tone finally takes a lighter edge, an almost sillier one that you aren't used to hearing from him. "-Not complaining, Shortass, just wondering," he wondered how his harshness was received with such warmth, it threw him for a loop.

 

You wouldn't think it, but he's actually a fantastic hugger - and instantly he's lost in your overwhelmingly peppermint scent when you push yourself against him, and then in coconut oils from your hair. It's one of those embraces where there's no gap between bodies, entirely warm and utterly drawn-in, full-investment body hugs, and Coach Negan isn't sure if it's a definite sexual sort of feeling or not - it doesn't feel like it is, but that visceral cosiness from the car has increased a hundred fold. The first thing he registers is that he can feel all of your soft parts, and yes, it's a thought tied in sex - but it feels a lot less perverted than that, like some primal part of him deeply enjoyed having a smaller, needier, feminine form against him. It made him feel strong, and maybe even protective - in a way that a dog might greedily lord over things that are exclusively in his space - maybe its pheromones or something, he isn't sure.

 

"For giving a shit," was your watery-smiled reply, and it's at this point he's realising that you're not only not used to people doing nice things for you, but you're almost a stranger to comfort, but every part of you seeks it with a keening, desperate need and you're a hot, steaming mess and it shows in your actions. God, he's so glad that he got you away from Palgrave, it's a random thought that darts through his mind but when he looks at that smile and that vulnerable sort of expression - and he can only really think that a guy like Palgrave might have picked you apart completely, taking advantage of all of your weaknesses in the way that the predatory, dangerous types do. He knows you're a strong person, it takes a strength of character to plough on ahead as you do, but he doesn't know that you're strong enough to deal with the likes of Ethan Palgrave, and he certainly wasn't one to risk it. You're a two-sided coin, frightfully innocent on one - emphasised when he can feel your little hands tangling into the material of his VMA jacket, almost like a child, on the other you are exactly that dirty girl who pinned up Trevor and told him to enjoy what he saw and it fascinates him.

 

It's the first time a staff member has ever pointed out your unhealthy habits regarding your arms and your bruising, in sixth form, the teachers had been more distant and at GCSE back home, every single kid had issues, yours fell into the vat of thousands. So when you're hugging him, it's because he's the first responsible adult to notice, even if it took until the age of twenty for that to happen. The feeling around it finally overwhelmed you, and you had an apology on the tip of your tongue the moment you sprung forward to do it, but his strong arms silenced it in your throat, and yes, this was lasting far longer than perhaps it should, but it was long overdue. That boundary which had been there previously, shattered itself.

 

"I'm not putting all this time in you to have you fucking bug out on me," was his reply - and his deep, rumbling voice makes his chest move while your head rests on it - breaking the gentle monotonous thud of his heartbeat. Yes, this is extremely intimate, but it also feels strangely right, and you absolutely don't want to untangle yourself anytime soon. His tone is blasé but his actions aren't, and he surprises you further when instead of pulling back, he gives a playful little sway of his entire, massive body, he's turning the intimacy silly, and you're not sure you've seen him be silly before. He's said some silly, ridiculous stuff - usually during his cruelly hilarious remarks when grilling his athletes, but right now he's purely playful.

 

 "There, there Short-ass," he deadpans, but it's not malicious in tone.

 

Something in his chest absolutely sinks, leaving a trail of blossoming warmth down to his gut when your arms squeeze his thick, strong midsection - and it hits home now to Coach Negan that you actually not only trust him, but seek him out for  _security,_ for  _safety -_ and that bloats his ego massively, causing him to smirk down at you.

 

_So fucking small..._

 

"C'monnn Shorty, let's head out," he drags it out, which is your cue to untangle yourself from him, mumbling a shy apology that he waves off - the way he sees it, the comfort was long, long overdue - he should have done it when you were crying in his car, or maybe even at the gas station, but better late than never. You're not looking at him when you let go, but after walking away from the coffee shop and meekly rolling down your sleeve, he grimaces at the sight of the vintage weigh & pay finally stopping their flash sale now that their clothing racks have been mostly stripped bare.

 

You also grimace at the sight, bracing yourself to get pushed, before Coach's authoritarian voice rolls over you.

 

"Alright, hold on tight, this is gonna be a fucking mess," and before you have a chance to respond, he grabs your tinier hand into his and ploughs on forward, in no mood to have you pushed pillar to post by self-absorbed shoppers. Now, Coach Negan stood at a highly impressive 6"2 in height, while having the enviable muscular width of a lineman, he shouldered people out of the way, blissfully ignoring the noises of offence and displeasure as he cleared the crowd and dragged you behind him in the clear path he created. It was a relief to not be knocked around anymore, but you'd never  _seen_ someone just tear through a crowd without giving a single fuck for manners like that - it was a little impressive.

 

"Oh that fucking explains it, there's some bullshit modern art installation opening this way," Coach Negan snorted - the weigh & pay was probably only half of that crowd. You hopped up forward out of the throng of people, squeezing the large hand tightly without realising until you'd fallen back into lockstep with the large man, sighing in relief.

 

Being small sucked sometimes, like in crowds.

 

"I don't get modern art, it's usually like _'ooooh lets look at an upside down chrome toilet and talk about how it represents the futility of man or something'_ \- but maybe that's because I'm more left brain than right brain, I dunno," you sighed, looking out at where there were still some people looking at the unveiling of the piece. You, still not quite being able to see the piece from the bottom due to the people standing ahead, could only see over them, seeing large, twisting, metallic vines that took on an odd geometric shape.

 

"What even is that?" you questioned "-I'm too small to see."

 

"Honestly, from up here, I have no idea what the fuckity fuck I'm looking at either," said Coach Negan dryly, causing you to emit a small giggle as you left the scene, avoiding the glare tossed your way at the somewhat loud comments the pair of you had made.

 

"Do you want to head back to campus?" you asked after a moment as you began to walk through Birdhouse Way through the slightly lesser crowded, smaller footpaths, you had to have killed about two or three hours, surely? You didn't want to reach into your bag on your other shoulder to check your phone, because that'd mean letting go, and one thing people don't tell you about hand-holding is, there's no timer that tells you when you're supposed to stop, or how you're supposed to do it - palm across palm or fingers locking, or if your hands are clammy _(fuck, they better not be clammy)._ Coach was, of course, narrowly aware that his hand was still swallowing yours, but he didn't really want to let it go. It was so much softer than his own, that and it was just nice to have - it would be harder to lose you like this, too.

 

He knows what it looks like, but he cant say he particularly cares much, he's your mentor, and you look up to him - how you manifest it, you two are friends of a sort, is entirely yours and his's business, nobody else's,

 

Coach Negan's mind flitted back to the roster, and then at you, before something seemed to click in his mind.

 

"Nah, fuck that. Coach Carr has the third stringers in the main hall anyway, and it's a pretty fucking decent day - lets not waste it," he said insistently. He earns so much money coaching the first string players for VMA's Wolves football team, but besides the unshiftable house and his current apartment, he doesn't have much in the way of expenditure, he didn't even bother getting a flashy car, and he could certainly afford to do so. Even his travel is funded for away-games, and there's between 10 and 13 games a season, but he also sets up off-season training schedules, preparing for summer playoffs, and doing everything to keep himself busy because he's fucking  _fantastic_ at being a coach. But he still has far too much free-time, and he'll have more now Lowes's fill-in was coming. All in all, he had more time than most staff members to wind down, more money than he's used to knowing what to do with - and no real focus beyond his job, it's one of the reasons he's happy to spend so easily.

 

"Yeah," you thought of all the studying you had to do - but you were ahead in Pathology, which was the crux of your syllabus and midterm, Mortuary Law was a complete snore and Body Restoration - while fascinating, was not your chosen area of expertise so you didn't plan to get too ahead in that class, as long as you maintained a high grade to keep that tidy 4.0. You were, perhaps, by virtue of the fact you worked extremely hard and had some natural gifts, in the rare position of a premed student that you could afford to say "fuck it," for an evening, and spend it with Coach Negan.

 

Isn't this what you wanted, anyway? To hang out? Yeah. 

 

There's a bookstore that you want to nose in, and he's not a book type, but he follows you in and watches your hand trace lovingly over the spines of them while you expressed a sadness that being premed - you didn't have much time to leisure read, it was nearly always for class. You're actually still dragging this large man by the hand, because you haven't let go, and there's a flash of amusement in the store clerk's eyes, because it's just a little funny, and your enthusiasm is nothing if not endearing. Naturally, you headed for the STEM books first, before you found yourself attracted to the classics, feeling almost mournful that you don't have enough hours in the day to read what you wanted.

 

So of course, you don't actually buy anything, but seeing how excited you were, it seems wrong to leave The Book Nook without getting  _something._

 

He caught sight of a brown, leather moleskin book in the little revolving display case near the store clerk, and he surprised you by actually getting something for himself. It's a really pretty book too - you're almost envious of it, it even has a little black ribbon strip attached to the binding so it could bookmark anywhere inside it. The front has a pattern dented into the leather, it's kind of flowery to be honest, a bit girly seeming for Coach Negan, but after he's handed over the money for the slightly overpriced thing (as most things in Birdhouse Way tended to be) - he handed it to you, and said that'd be the food diary you had to keep.

 

You swallowed thickly, this was somehow worse than what Lorelai did, even though she spent far more - it was probably because your friendship with Coach Negan wasn't like the one you had with your roomie. The dynamic was just different, and it almost felt like you were taking advantage of his kindness towards you, and you were feeling ever so slightly like a charity case. Coach picked it and didn't give you a choice in the matter because if he told you, you had to get something, you'd probably try to pay for it, and argue with him, so he simply didn't give you a chance. You're a poor-ass scholarship student, and he makes a tidy fucking sum, and that's all there is to it - plus, he can't deny that it felt pretty good to be able to just  _provide -_ and whip out a roll of cash like a goddamn rockstar. It was powerful, so it was just as much for his own sense of smug satisfaction as it was for you.

 

"More advice from your fucking elders, let people do nice things for you and don't fucking complain about it, seriously, just accept it," was his ruling on the matter, because seriously, if the roles were reversed, he wouldn't be complaining, and not for the first time, he mused how he'd have the world wrapped around his fingers if he was you.

 

Knowing better than to fight it, you accepted the book, but before even getting four steps from the register - you grabbed for his hand again, and he didn't fight it. You squeezed, sensing a hug may not be proportional in response, but the palpable excitement at receiving such a fancy notebook is there, because everything you take notes in currently is just something from Dollar Tree. There was a trick to this though, by buying the book for you with the explicit purpose of it being your food diary, you were now obligated to keep to it meticulously, especially as it was a gift.

 

"Between you and my roomie, I'm feeling a little spoiled and I'm kinda not used to it," you admitted shyly "-Lorelai got me a bunch of stuff too - and um, I don't really know what I've done to deserve it, but I'm really grateful," - he felt you give his hand a squeeze in a way to say thank you, but it's a lot more intimate this time, because your slender little fingers are slipping in between his longer, thicker ones. It's a lot more intimate than the palm in palm clasp, because it actually locks you together, and he does give you an odd look that you don't notice when you do it. 

 

You had him wrapped around your finger and you didn't even know it, and with your genuine happiness over something as little as a $25.99 leather-bound diary - it was suddenly quite apparent why Lizzie called you Skylight. He arrived to the same conclusion on his own, funnily enough, and it was because the sun shone right through you when you were happy -  _truly happy -_ and he could just tell that this would be the sort of thing that buckled the likes of Trevor. He can't help but think that you're so much better when you're happy, because it seems like he mostly sees you when you're troubled, and this is a nice little change. He tells himself it's a biology thing, and most men instinctively want to see women happy, but in reality, he knows it's because he's actually invested in you as a person, and he so seldom ever does that.

 

It gives him a purpose though, something else to fix his thoughts on, it makes him feel responsible - like an actual authority figure. You give him that, whether you realise it or not, and you being his little pet project - well, as much as it is for his own sense of ego and to fill his life with a dose of that dangerous excitement, it's also pretty nice to have a friend. Coach Negan has friends of a sort, the other coaches are pants-shit scared of him but they'll go for drinks now and then, but it's more of a boss-to-minion relationship. This felt like, well, an actual friendship, he just didn't expect it with someone whose literally half of his age.

 

"Oh! I wanna go in there - but you're not allowed to buy me anything, that's the rule," and before he can respond, you're moving him elsewhere.

 

There's a record store in the distance, and you're pulling him along without realising you are, because record shops are a dying breed but you remember being raised on your mother's vinyls and when she had enough pennies to rub together, she'd take you hunting for classic music like this. It's a little hole called "The Needledrop," - and it's manned by a bored looking hipster in his early 30s and a moody disposition, and there's even a little jingle when the door opens. The shop itself, isn't impressive, the carpets need cleaning and the racks have chipped away white paint, but there stacks upon stacks of CDs and vinyl records. You're practically in heaven, but Coach Negan - who'd long since switched to the iPod, couldn't really understand the level of excitement you displayed, but he appreciated the physical medium. 

 

There's a little record player in the far right corner, with "Try Me!" and a selection of disks - you looked over at the clerk unsurely, before excitedly pawing through the collection. It was a trip down memory lane for Coach Negan, some of this stuff he hadn't seen since he'd been a moody teenager, trying to irritate his father and otherwise gain his attention. There's even a friendly sort of interaction with the clerk, where you argue the merits of CD over vinyl for more modern works that benefit from things like boosted bass and had more synthetic backing, but vinyl preserved crisper sound for works like  _The Felice Brothers,_ or for the uninitiated-to-vinyl - Fleetwood Mac's  _Rumours -_ honestly, Coach can barely remember some of the names you drop, some he's never heard of, but you find common ground when you wander to the rock, punk and metal sections. 

 

Not before ending the heated discussion at the counter with a little put-out huff though, and declaring "-you simply aren't listening to good remixes or modern bands with good bass if you cant appreciate CD Alestrom sounding better than it's weird modern vinyl release,".

 

Watching you get heated is quite fun, it's nice to see you passionate, but your interests align when you pull out _Pieces of Eight,_ by the Styx, and drop the needle straight on _Renegade_ before Coach can say anything, managing to work that classic player like an absolute professional. The music choice makes his grizzled face split into a genuine grin though as the introduction kicks in through the small shop, and causes the clerk to look up with a small smile.

 

_Ooh mama, I'm in fear for my life, and the long-arm of the law,_

 

_Hangman's comin' down from the gallows, and I'm so far from my home._

 

"Shit, girlie, now that's a good beat! Well-fucking-done!" his praise is genuine too, and you have to resist the urge to preen as the guitar kicks in, and there's a happier little sway as you flit around the grungy store, pulling out trips down memory lane and finding a few aligned with Coach Negan, who seemed more classic rock with hints of punk and metal, while you had a more eclectic sort of mangle. You seemed to have an appreciation for a lot, but really enjoyed dulcet, haunting 80s tones with low, gravelly sorts of voices which moaned out dark, sensuous lyrics. 

 

"Mum raised me on her bitchin' vinyl stack and I've had great taste ever since," you said with a grin, and honestly, all the two of you do is dick around the shop. You're the only two customers and the bored cashier doesn't seem to mind, the atmosphere actually feels pretty pleasant, he slides on an AC/DC classic after the Styx, and you're trying to work out which single track is the "best" - he maintains it's  _Back in Black,_ you prefer  _Shoot to Thrill -_ but it's not a real fight, because you end it with the declaration that AC/DC is rather "samey" - causing the clerk to snort derisively in agreement while Coach Negan exaggerated an expression of disgust at your words.

 

"She's a keeper," the cashier had said - he didn't react, and you took it into stride with a shy smile, you weren't sure if he was making a reference to coach and you, or more likely, yourself and him - however much you annoyed the guy earlier, he seemed quite pleased having somebody to talk to, though you personally weren't much of a fan of his kind of music elitism.

 

You end up leaving with one measly CD -  _There Might Be Giants -_ a best of, because you're not a huge fan of compressed, quality reduced MP3 files squished onto an iPod, because your hearing is attuned to picking up on the quality drop, but Coach Negan can't quite in the same sharp manner. You're an aficionado of a sort, and it's kind of endearing how enthusiastic you are about things that you like, and if he had to describe it, he'd use the words "downright precious,"- because you are, and it seems safer to think of you that way, because it explains to himself why he's being so warm. If you're childlike, he can say that you're just playing up to that, because while he's not the nicest guy, he isn't a complete ass to little kids - and when your fingers are locked in with his, it was driven home when you pulled him in certain directions and occasionally swung your hands between you up and down playfully, ever so slightly. He didn't even think you noticed you were doing it - you were just...  _happy._

 

Birdhouse Way is not usually the kind of place Coach Negan has any interest in, or reason for going, but he has to admit it - he's having a pretty decent time, he doesn't actually realise how much he enjoyed it until he glanced at his watch and realised they killed two hours in one tiny, run down record store.

 

"Do you have anywhere you need to be?" you asked him, because you noticed a few shops beginning to close.

 

Coach thought for a moment - did he? Really? If he just had planning to do, he could even do that from home, so, no - nobody was expecting him, nobody was waiting for him - he had nobody, no plans, no nothing.

 

And neither did you, Lorelai had her own life, she may expect a text to make sure you're okay, but she's not your keeper.

 

"No, why?" he asked curiously, feeling you let go of his hand. He watched as you skipped ahead of him slightly, and turned around to face him, with the light breeze hitting your back, wisps of dark hair framing your face. There's that far too innocent smile, but a sparkle of clear mischief in your eyes, arms opened wide to match the grin - it's an impish sort of look that he's never seen on you before.

 

"The evening is young! Let's go do something," 

 

Maybe it was selfish, but you wanted to escape your problems for a while, or at least, for as long as the coach would allow. He's letting you lead him by the nose into whatever it is you wanted to do for the day, and he cant really object too much because the very first thing he did was tell you that the agenda for the day was entirely yours, and that he just wanted to get out. In truth, he had no idea what you wanted to do, and if he asked you - you didn't know either. You just wanted to get out, and get far away from VMA and all of the stresses that you had there. You didn't think he'd humour you for this long, but he was, and that desire to "hang out" with him was being fulfilled, and that constant awkwardness seemed to drip away the longer you spent time together.

 

It was nice, having somebody you could rely on besides yourself.

 

* * *

 

 

Looking at you, Coach Negan realises what's so fascinating about spending time with you. You're a walking oxymoron, a many-sided die with a different face on each one, you're innocent and you're childlike in your keening need for safety and security, you're dangerous and cunning in your familial bonds and criminal entrenchment, you're smart and sharp in your moves, but right now - you were intriguing and unpredictable, and part of him is kind of into it. He's been waiting for something to throw a spanner in the works, to cause maelstrom where there wasn't, to otherwise disrupt the monotony and the fog that he can't seem to find his way out of. That's why he's humouring you. That's why he hasn't stopped you once.

 

There's a jazz club which is some ways out from the main shopping area of Birdhouse Way, called The Indian Inkstain. It's a tiny little building because it's not actually a first-floor sort of place, it just has a doorman who makes sure you pay the entry fee and a set of spiralling stairs that lead into utter darkness. You lead, but you take a hold of the older man's hand again because of how purely dark it is, reminding you of a cinema screening before you're standing at a pair of oak doors that lead to where music is steadily leaking out from underneath the cracks. He didn't even know that this place existed, but maybe it's the fact he's not looking at the world the way younger people do, or maybe it's that you have a more tourist perspective than he does - he isn't sure. You found it by pulling off a leaflet which was hanging off a post when you saw a steady flow of people heading one way out of the Birdhouse, it's not something he'd have ever taken notice of - but you did. It told him you were one to be taken by a whim when the mood struck, and that was a quality you seemed to share, only you seemed to take it to a more daring level.

 

"Fuck it, lets go! It could be fun!" and that was that.

 

That's why you're both here, standing on a muddy red carpet with hard alcohol stains in parts. The bar is separate from the main hall, or you're sure you might not have gotten in at all.

 

The moment the pair of you enter, it's another world completely. There's black and white classic artists littering the walls, the tables are an old, lacquered kind of deep brown with faint circular glass stains printed into them, and the lighting is ambient - not too dark, but definitely not light. There's saxophones, there's trumpets - bold, brass instruments, a hefty drum set and tall, gangly spider-fingered big band players. It's like a trip through time, but in the best kind of way, and for a moment, you feel under-dressed, but compared to the coach, you're really not. There's a mixture of dresses, t-shirts, smart-casual and just plain odd in terms of the crowd, but the atmosphere is good, the air practically trembles with excitement.

 

Coach Negan looked over at you, and saw your head resting casually in your hands, eyes wide and barely blinking - you're utterly taken in by the musicians. You drink in everything around you, and that tiny little smile dully illuminated by the dimmed lights told him that you were having a good time, you weren't thinking about Lizzie, or anybody else. Good. He's doing a good job - he thinks, of being your mentor. It's new ground for him in a way, he wasn't usually one to take any kind of a special interest in a student unless he thought they had a high chance of playing for his first stringers. He was a bit of a talent scout in that regard, so this really is new ground for him. It's an emotionally driven mentorship, he knows you're in some kind of trouble, and your own department isn't the place you can get support, which just leaves him.

 

Coach doesn't make any bones about the fact he's an a-grade asshole, he's not a good kind of guy, but it doesn't mean he can't do good things. Honestly, he's kind of proud of himself - he knows that morally, not reporting the events of the party was going against every rule in the book, but the fact that he hasn't just left you alone to sink or swim is a small source of personal pride. He's not  _completely_ irresponsible, and the whole personal training and food diary thing - that just proves it, and when he's hanging out with you like this, he can be sure you actually did eat enough that day, and you're completely safe - from others, and from yourself. The words flash through his mind when you catch him looking at you and flash him a small, pleased smile.

 

"Having fun?"

 

_What's all this for?_

 

_For giving a shit._

 

"The band's pretty fucking good," that's his way of saying yes, and he's not usually a jazz sort of guy, he doesn't love it or hate it really, but seeing big band jazz live is a unique kind of experience. He's glad to have experienced it and it easily blows his evening plans out of the fucking water. You had to have been there hours, listening to the entire set, but with him driving and you swearing to tone down on your drinking, the pair of you are drinking virgin cocktails, which amounts to "fancy fucking juice," which is overpriced as hell.

 

"Lets just pretend it's part of our five-a-day," you replied, getting a small snort from him. There wasn't much conversation between the pair of you, but it was a comfortable quiet because the pair of you were absorbing the jazz set - the only time there is any words exchanged is during the breaks or between numbers, but you don't speak much - neither of you really have a need to. Coach didn't even really feel the time pass until he rolled up his tracksuit sleeve and glanced at his watch, looking at it in surprise. The pair of you stayed until the club actually let out, and pushed forward into the cold night air, embracing the freshness compared to the slow rising humidity of The Indian Inkstain. 

 

It was 1AM by the time it let out - you'd managed to not only kill an entire afternoon and evening, but even some of the midnight hours. 

 

"Back to the real world, huh?" you said with a wry sort of smile when you walked out, again, clutching his larger hand. He didn't even notice it this time, in the dark up and out of the stairs of the club - it was fairly understandable, but the fact that you didn't really let go after wasn't something either of you paid any heed to. It just felt sort of right, and you'd almost gasped in surprise when you two emerged and found the skies had gone completely black. 

 

Time really had passed, but the old phrase of not noticing when you're having fun really did prove true.

 

"Un-fucking-fortunately," Coach's smile falters, and the walk to the Volvo is a slow one, past all of the empty and closed shops in Birdhouse Way, it now feels less like you're holding onto him to not get pushed and more so you are kept safe, because it's actually very poorly lit, and back home, poorly lit areas generally gave you a heightened sense of danger awareness - so you squeeze a little tighter without realising, but it wakes Coach Negan up to the fact you're still holding onto him.

 

"Watch your step, shit's dark as fuck," he figures it's because you're in heels, and the smaller footpaths aren't the most even - it doesn't even factor into his mind that you're as hyper aware of nightly danger than him, because with the build of a lineman and an impressive 6"2 height and an ego to match, he very rarely feels as though he's in danger. The walk is actually mostly silent, but it's not awkward anymore, and whenever he looks at you - he can see you looking elsewhere, like you're surveying while simultaneously taking in the nightly beauty of Birdhouse Way. It's kind of sweet in a strange way, like to you there's so many things left to see and you just don't know where to put your eyes. 

 

The magic of the night dies with the sound of a car door slamming shut when the pair of you crawl into his car and the sound of your phone going off from a highly concerned Lorelai - whom you forgot to text. He glanced over at your phone screen when you got out your main mobile and snorted.

 

"Lets get you back to campus before your roommate has a fucking conniption," he chuckled.

 

And that was that, just like that - the world resets itself back to normal, the magic has ended, the curtains come to a close. It's all over now, and it's back to your worries and your studies, your pressures and your stresses, but for a precious while? It'd had been purely carefree, and that was very much worth coming out for. You wish him a safe drive, and he tells you to go the fuck to sleep, because he probably shouldn't have kept you out this late when he told you that you should be getting at least eight hours. You'd laughed, and told him you were the one who dragged him away from his responsibilities, not the other way around.

 

He'd smirked, and driven off.

 

Boy, this was going to be weird to explain to Lorelai.

 

 

 


	12. Chaos Theory

 

 

God, Trevor Matthews is a little bit hung up, maybe obsessed, but obsession rings of unhealthy, and stalker-like behaviours and he wouldn't say he's gone that far.  It's just, you're taking up an unhealthy amount of his thoughts, because he's the sort of guy that develops a fixation and it was so fucking hard to think of anything except that day in the gymnasium. He might even be moved up to second string soon because of his proficiency, so Coach Carr and Coach Negan pick up on the locker room talk, mostly Negan, as he's much more attuned to it. The team, naturally, never let the incident of Trevor being caught with his pants down go, but his way of getting around it is simply bragging about it - embracing it, and incidentally, revealing that he can't quite stop thinking about it.

 

The locker room talk is domineered by what happened to Trevor, because  _everyone_ had seen it and everyone who didn't, heard about it. So yes, Trevor brags about it, and his brags spread through the various strings, and it changes from innocent little babe-in-the-woods whom Trevor shattered, to a dirty, vengeful, saucy little creature. It is thankfully something which stays between the team, and wouldn't reach the Geek Building due to how disconnected the environments were, or he might be more concerned about the fact he went anywhere near you getting out. Everyone knows it's you who strung him up, there's nobody else it could have been, and it isn't long before he caved and admitted it anyway. He was shy to admit it, due to the fear, but was broken quickly enough by the jeers. Coach Negan is learning some uncomfortable details that he cant quite unhear. 

 

_You gotta love how she runs her tongue over your lips, just for the fucking hell of it._

 

It's locker room talk, he's also discovered some cheerleaders have mono, and that his quarterback has successfully managed to spread syphilis to the rest, as long as his first stringers don't catch the mono plague, to a point he actually found himself telling his team - specifically Darius - to, quote "Keep it in your fucking pants or go find some fresh pussy but so help me God if you get mono before the next game, you'll wish it have killed you," - not something he thought he'd have to say, but Darius got around, apparently. It’s a while before Coach Negan deals with you again, and in truth, he’s not thinking about it too much, because he’s just put the fear of God into Darius about cleaning up his act before the NCAA come over. The team now has to endure Darius’s mood-swings and he’s waiting on the eventual complaints he’ll receive from other team members when the consequences of going clean begin to effect his quarterback. He saw this coming from miles off, which is why he’s moulding Troy Everton to take his place from second string up to first, so he has his own stresses to deal with, really.The asshole from UPenn is here too, he’s a spry early-30s guy that the women's boxing team are mooning over as their new coach, you're less than impressed, but only see Coach Negan for all of a few moments before he has to disappear into his admin office.

 

Coach Ford is, for lack of a better word, a complete beefcake, and Negan has to admit, he's not only slightly jealous, but just annoyed at the fact he even exists. It's a blow to his ego and it's not a thought he likes to confront either, because he doesn't like to think of people being better than him, but he knows that Coach Ford is, quite simply, better looking. He's an annoying, over-zealous pretty boy, the teams like him well enough, but Negan thinks he's a bit of a pussy. Not as much as Coach Carr is, but a pussy all the same - because he's the kind of guy who is kind of lax about absences and generally speaking, is seen as a lot more easy-going.

 

He's kind of encroaching on Negan's Cool Teacher Territory, and it's pissing him off. He slumped in his rather cushy office chair, and swung his feet onto the desk and reclined backwards so that he was staring up at the ceiling, feeling a vague headache coming on. He could only really stand Ford's chipperness for so long before he wanted to give himself a full frontal lobotomy. He sighed, and reached into his desk drawer for a pen so he could start doodling out some new strategic approaches that would work better with Ramirez filling in Trevor's old spot, before freezing, seeing something besides his old clipboard.

 

A fresh, vaguely sugary, cocoa smell escaped, and he found himself staring at a small sheet of card, it's a transparent cellophane bag, which is held together by a bit of white ribbon in a meticulous little bow. He took the card out first, frowning in curiously. Lifting it, he picked up that smell of peppermint sanitiser which had become so familiar to him directly off of the paper, and he flips it around. The small sheet of card is cream, with golden writing looping across the front - it's not as fancy as it sounds, it's just a cheap little thing, but it's nice - the text simply reads  _Thank You -_ and instantly he recognises it as a thank you card. You could have texted the sentiment, but it wouldn't be the same, and you'd been plenty grateful in person - but apparently, it hadn't quite been enough for you to be comfortable with how much time and money he'd spent on you. 

 

 _It's probably for the book -_ he mused, since you'd pretty much melted right there in The Book Nook when he'd handed it to you. The art of the thank you card is nearly utterly dead, but it seemed he'd done enough to warrant one, and he didn't think he'd ever be the kind of guy to receive one. An amused smile flits across his face as he opens it - and immediately, he's greeted with your handwriting, and thankfully it's not infamously illegible like most people in the medicinal field. It's half-cursive but half a sort of clumsy, wide-spaced kind of cursive, where the words are big and bold enough to be clear.

 

He expects it to say "thanks for the book," or the day out in general, or something, but the sentiment is so pure that it floors him for a moment, and his mind goes completely blank as he reads it to himself.

 

_**Thank you for being nice to me** _

 

Fuck.

 

It is a devastatingly sweet sentiment, and the small bag contained some rather fresh smelling cookies - not something he expected, but to you, it was a drop in the bucket compared to all that he'd done for you, and was continuing to do for you. You wondered, briefly, if it'd be inappropriate, but after he'd purchased you a very much physical sort of gift - and not the kind you eat - it seemed acceptable. Taking one out, he noticed they had to be homemade, how you'd find time to do that with how busy and stressed out you were, he had no clue. It had to be some effort using a student kitchen. They're roughly the same size, but it's not exact - no proper tray, but it tells him it wasn't store brought. He wondered, briefly, when you'd find the time to gather the ingredients and set aside an evening to bake, but he could picture your nose in a book while they baked. Coach Negan had exactly one premed student in his short time at VMA, and they had to choose between their studies, and their position on the team. They ended up quitting, because the sheer amount of time and dedication it took to be a successful premed student and also make varsity was just too much for them, so he's  _keenly_ aware of how much effort it must have taken to find time to do anything. PT included, and that's without factoring in how amazingly burdened you are. The Lizzie thing, the Fi Kappa Sci party thing, the PhDs being in your life on a semi-daily basis, your  _job -_ God, it's no surprise when you stop coming to the boxing meets as frequently.

 

Mm, chocolate chip - not the healthiest thing, but a lovely treat. He knows that nice teachers often got cards and warm sentiments from their students during holidays or if they're sick or something, less so in college, but he was  _never_ that teacher, no matter how "cool" he was. He was  _never_ that guy, so the fact he's receiving something that makes him  _that guy_ is heartwarming, to say the least. 

 

The dirty talk of the team gets flushed away for a moment as he gnaws on a cookie, and finds them to be quite nice, and a few choice words flash through his mind. 

 

_She's so small, Coach. She has to jump in heels just to kiss me._

He remembers feeling your face pushing against his chest, and how he had to move his arms and settle them at the small of your back because he was so large in comparison that they'd have wandered incidentally to your ass because you're just that fucking small compared to him. He remembers feeling your little fingers kneading into his jacket, and how he had to hold your hand to stop you from getting crushed - glancing at the bag of cookies, that familiar, warm, sinking sensation that he felt when you hugged him settled in his chest and stomach again.

 

You're a sweet little creature, he thinks - and feels just a little bit smug while he eats his cookies.

 

_Suck that, Ford. How many students are making your ass, cookies?_

 

He slips the note into his wallet, because it's an important 'first' for him - as he never really did much to endear people to him, it's nice to have a written reminder that he's not totally disliked, and that he is both cool and likeable. It's not like he was going to throw it away, because again, he was never the teacher that this happened to - and it was rather nice. Good on the ego, anyway. He's contently eating the cookies though, because he cant really remember when the last time it was that he had something homemade by somebody else, or even really homemade in general. Sure, he got by well enough, but he was hardly a chef, he mostly got outside catering. 

 

He has Roy Thurman in his office, despite not having made physical contact with you since the day you'd gone out, all he'd gotten were a few texts explaining that you didn't have time for PT for a little while, and that your meet attendance might get a bit sketchy while you underwent a few more tests in class to gauge where you were in terms of advanced material. 

 

Roy's squirming in the chair across from Coach Negan while he's chewing obnoxiously on his fresh cookies.

 

"You know we have an away-game coming up since our victory against VSU, right?" he starts with that, and immediately, Roy relaxes - thinking he's here to talk shop. He's a damn good team captain too, and a little more proactive than Trevor, so while he may be interested to hear what he has to say in terms of gameplay, that's not why he's been summoned to the head coach's office. Roy just nods silently, completely upright and rigid because he's aware that the coach has unpredictable moods at best, and is generally a lot smarter about how he approaches the man than most.

 

"Are you taking anybody?" he asks bluntly.

 

Now that surprised Roy, and it would be grossly inappropriate if he thought Coach Negan even gave a crap about that when it came to how he talked to the team, but he remembered the little talk earlier in the week - and then it clicks. It makes sense. Coach Negan doesn't want people getting sick before the game, so maybe he was calling people in one by one, it wouldn't surprise him - the mono outbreak was pretty bad.

 

"Oh, no. No I'm not, and you don't have to worry about me getting mono or something, I'm staying well away from that mess," he said, which was honestly the politest way to describe what was occurring sickness-wise with VMA cheerleaders who were turning into a toxic vat of mono and syphilis thanks to the quarterback, Darius.

 

Coach snorts, swallowing the last of the large cookie he had and wiping his lips on the back of his hand crudely, lowering his legs off the table so he can give Roy his most intimidating sort of look, scooting his office chair to the desk.

 

"Good, but not why you're fucking here," he said. He thought about how to segway into this, but not being one to have to answer to his students, he went in boldly.

 

"What do you think of the laundry girl?"

 

 It throws Roy for a loop, and his brows furrow in confusion. He looks honestly befuddled, and a little bit shocked. He's trying to figure out why he'd ask something like that because he's mentally griping for reasons that Coach Negan might ask that, but he's coming up utterly empty. Roy is quiet too, he doesn't immediately answer, he's just looking at the head coach oddly, cogs clearly turning behind his deep brown eyes, giving him a searching sort of look. The quietness prompts Coach Negan to push him with a few prompts, which honestly just confuses Roy more, as he's unable to figure out where he's going with this. 

 

"Do you think she's fucking pretty?" now  _that_ comes across as inappropriate ground, but it jostles Roy into answering.

 

"Uh..." he stammers out awkwardly "-I mean, yes?" at Coach Negan's unimpressed look, he finds himself compelled to elaborate under the man's withering stare, though he's still obviously confused and it shows in his tones when he speaks. "I mean, she's pretty and she seems really...interesting. I thought she was kind of sweet but I guess after what she did to Trevor, maybe she isn't. But, she doesn't seem like a bad person, I guess. Why?"

 

Coach considers softening his approach, but it seems that Roy Thurman works best with his bluntness, so he taps his fingers against his desk in thought for only a few moments before answering.

 

"I want you to invite her to our away-game," he said calmly.

 

What?

 

Just when he thinks he has Coach Negan's demeanour down, he's thrown completely. Roy sat there mutely, frowning in confusion, it was now feeling a lot less like he was summoned here for something team related, and more for something personal. That said, it was very important to be on a coach's good side, especially the head coach. Careers were made from what they did, and what they thought of you, and they'd control where you'd go in life, so he has to be very careful with how he responds. He's nervous as all Hell too, because he doesn't know where this rabbithole is going to go.

 

"Um, why?" he cant fathom why Coach Negan would care, or ask him to do something like this, it's just weird. Very, very weird.

 

"Because I trust you," said Coach Negan smoothly, it seemed he had a prepackaged response for this question too. Oh yes, he'd thought about this long and hard while chewing through the fresh baked goods while manipulating the schedules and rosters for summer playoffs. "-I'm gonna be straight with you, Thurman, and what I tell you doesn't leave this office, got it?"

 

Now that grabbed the boy's attention, he nodded enthusiastically and leaned in, ready for what he assumed was a big secret.

 

"The administration is aware of a threat against her persons from Geek Building, and there's an official investigation into it," he said coolly - ignoring the curious look "-it's part of why she gets additional training, but, for three days, I would like to know exactly where the fuck she is, and that she's alright. I think it would be appreciated, especially by her, that for three days she isn't concerned for her safety, that for three fucking days, she can be relatively carefree. It might be best that she's not on campus while the investigation is happening," now he was clearly bullshitting, but it seemed the best lies were fabricated in truth, and Roy seemed to be following along, nodding. "-but she might appreciate the invite more from you, instead of being strong-armed into going, and I'm a busy fucking guy, so I wouldn't be able to babysit her anyway, but if _you_ could invite her in, get her to come with the girls - I'd appreciate it, Roy."

 

Huh.

 

He could see why it'd be more appropriate to have a teammate do it, and have more people looking out for you, but wow was it an odd scenario, and no two ways about it - it seemed like Coach Negan really seemed to care. That, or maybe somebody in the administration asked him to do it, but he still found himself floored. He was, at first, highly uncomfortable, but the more he stared at the coach, the more he was slowly trying to put it together in his head. You were responsible for the team's outfits, so you must have some sort of working relationship with the coaches, you were also on women's boxing, and Negan was heading that before Ford came to replace Lowes - so you having specialised attention wasn't too weird. Especially if you happened to be good. What he was struggling to reconcile was the idea that he was doing it to be nice, because he didn't typically associate Coach Negan with the word "nice," and if you asked anyone else on the team, they'd agree.

 

He wondered who on Earth would threaten you, but he supposed the lives of people in Geek Building must be world's apart from his own. 

 

"Is she going to be okay?" was Roy's first concern, and considering that was where his mind went instead of being visibly agitated at being forced into asking you out, it shows Coach Negan that he's already made a good choice. There's a reason besides being nice that he's doing this at all, too - and that's because it'd be after your cousins come and visit. He doesn't want to have to wait until he comes back from an away-game to hear in person what would have gone down, so if you're in the vicinity at least, he can steal you away and find out how it all went. 

 

"Yes," said Coach Negan flatly, though if he's honest, he isn't sure he knows the answer, you're already not okay. "Will you ask her?"

 

Roy frowns in thought - it's all for a good reason, and it's so oddly pure to come from his coach, if he hadn't been the one to hear it and experience it himself, he wouldn't have believed it. Even if the administration has asked him to do this, or hinted at it, it's undeniably a nice sort of gesture, and it makes sense the more he thinks about it. It's not like you could go home while an investigation happens, you're an international, you don't really have anyone - so an away-game is kind of perfect.

 

"There's no guarantee she'll say yes, Coach, especially after Trevor," that's his main thought, because Roy doesn't think of himself as a particularly great catch - Trevor was easily better looking. Coach Negan actually rolls his eyes, of course, Roy would be worried about ending up strung up like Trevor or otherwise dealing with the wrath of a woman scorned, especially if she found out he was asked to do this.

 

"Just, don't be a fucking idiot. Don't string her along - ask her as a friend, and don't make it a joke. Smile at her, be kind to her, and hold her hand. It's not fucking rocket science," _all she wants is for someone to give a shit -_ he thinks "-and I shouldn't have to say it because you're practically a fucking choir boy, but don't make her do anything she doesn't want to do and that's all you need to do. I'll take care of the travel arrangements and which bus she's on, just, fucking sort it, okay? I'm trusting you Roy. So do not. Under any circumstance. Cock. This. Up," he emphasised with his most severe expression.

 

"I won't," Roy swallowed nervously "-s-she's a nice girl, you don't need to put the fear of God in me, I'll ask her."

 

"Good, now, there's one more thing I need to mention," he said coolly, tilting back in his chair "-you being the team captain and all, you should know that the NCAA hasn't done one of their unscheduled drug tests in a while, in fact, you might even think we're slightly fucking overdue, now, I don't really give a shit what you or the team do in your spare time, but if you piss anything except crystal clear Evian, we're going to have a gigantic fucking problem, and it'll reflect poorly on me, got it?" he said calmly, watching as Roy began to squirm at the rapid change of subject. 

 

"Got it," said Roy quietly.

 

"I couldn't tell you when, that'd be fucking illegal, but if I had to put a feeling on it, I'd say maybe in the next few weeks. It's your job as captain to make sure this goes smoothly,"

 

"No, I understand," said Roy insistently, cogs turning behind his eyes - there might be something he could do,  he at least, had somebody he could ask - and it'd tie in with Coach's request, in fact, it wouldn't surprise the boy if the move was this highly calculated on Coach's part.

 

"Good. Now get out my office, I got shit to do,"

 

And that was that. Roy left feeling a vast amount of confusion towards his coach, but he wasn't going to argue - there were certainly worse fates.

 

Boy, you really didn't think you'd be involved with the football team like this, you really, really didn't. It all started when Roy Thurman came up to you, jogging across the quad when he caught you coming out of the social sciences building with your friend at your side, Ravi, after having eaten. It started as him asking how you were, telling you about the after party, asking - with far more concern than you'd have expected from him - how your training with the coach was going. He needs help though, and that's why he's come to you - you're premed, you're the only relation to the medical side of VMA that any of them even know, and quite frankly, what Roy is asking you to assist him with is probably illegal. Roy is, however, a clean-cut kind of guy, and he asks you in a nebulous, round-a-bout kind of way, what you'd best advice, as a premed student, to help his team get clean and ready for the NCAA's impromptu drug test.

 

It's innocent enough, he's just asking about what you think might be a good detox diet, you're also a girl - and they do those cleansing detox thingies all the time, and so that's how he approaches it. What Roy Thurman doesn't take into account - is that you're a street rat at heart, and asking you how to pass a drug's test is like asking the Pope to call to prayer. This is something you're intimately familiar with from the people around you, the world of narcotics is a considered speciality, and while you weren't an excessive user yourself, you found yourself standing before the sport's team in the male changing rooms, hands on your hips, with a large black duffel bag at your side.

 

"Okay, so um, some of you know me and some of you don't, but right now, I'm gonna be your guardian angel. My job here today, is to make sure you guys all pass your drug test," you started with that.

 

Honestly, Roy didn't expect you to go this far, and he was admiring Coach Negan's ability to put things together, because he wouldn't have put it past the man to have this organised in such a way that he would have you pulled in and roped into getting the team clean without having his name anywhere near it. It's really fucking clever, if he's honest - because he brought the coach's act hook, line and sinker. He really thought for a moment that he actually cared about what happened to laundry girl, and maybe he does - Roy isn't fucking sure anymore, all he knows is, he's pretty much contracted to invite you to the away-game after this. 

 

"How're you gonna do that?" it's Darius who speaks, frowning with a towel wrapped around his hips, exposing his broad, toned body. You look out at the sea of first, second and third stringers all cramped into one place, ignoring the wide-eyed look directed at you from Trevor.

 

You dropped the bag on the floor with a thud, before unzipping it and revealing the contents. 

 

"Some of you are juicing, maybe, or maybe you just like to take a puff of a one-hitter before dinner with your girlfriend's awful fucking parents, honestly? I don't really care much about what any of you guys are on, or what you're doing in your spare time," you said bluntly - the truth is, you care about the coach. When Roy comes up to you seeking some friendly advice, your mind instantly goes to how this might reflect on your newfound friend, and so you standing here is as much about helping Roy out as it is trying to do something to impress Coach Negan. Cookies are all fine and dandy, but the man was now keeping religious track of your self-harm and your food, he's training you to keep you safe, he's doing all manner of things for you and you just cant seem to find a single way to pay him back.

 

This is one way.

 

"But it means a bit of Certo probably isn't going to be enough, the Certo detox keeps THC out of your urine, which, you guys - is basically the good shit in marijuana that gets you high as a kite and is what comes up in your pee when you're tested," at the mixture of looks exchanged between some second and third stringers, you sigh, running a hand back through your hair. Right. Not everybody knew what you did, they just knew of you and your relationship with Trevor - and whatever rumours circulated around that. "But if you're on other stuff, you'll need a more full detox."

 

"Guys, I want you to know that I know what I'm talking about. I might just be a premed student, but I come from the backside of Cheshire, where passing drug tests is standard fare if you wanna keep your privileges, your kids, or stay good with your probation officer. For all intents and purposes, I'm the fucking drug test fairy, alright?" you oozed an authoritarian tone - the same kind that had Trevor pinned to the climbing gear, and it silenced some of the chuntering and the mumbles. You pull out several boxes of what are basically a powerful body cleansing detox, the kind that has you stapled to the bathroom and purging your insides out. There's enough for the team - you'd brought it with your own money, and fully intended on them to be purging their absolute guts out, because they're not going to like the alternative.

 

"You're also gonna wanna be popping vitamin D and chugging on Rockstar for a while to make sure your piss stays yellow, because while you're on all this? You're going to be peeing Aquafina," you said bluntly, they could get their own vitamin supplements, they'll probably even have discounts - being athletes and all.

 

"Your other option, if you don't wanna go clean, is less glamorous," you grimaced - you only brought it up because some people couldn't handle the full detox, and Roy looked a little green - because he'd peeked in that bag and caught sight of some things which made him cringe.

 

"One is injecting clean urine, which carries a high infection risk - so not really an option, another is an oil change, which is about as nice as it sounds," you deadpanned.

 

_Don't ask. Don't ask. Don't ask._

 

Of course, though - Darius asks, because the idea of not juicing and going on a detox is making him nervous to think about.

 

"It involves disinfecting the tip of your junk, gently inserting a catheter deep into your urethra and completely swapping out the contents of your bladder for someone else's. An oil change. It's a one-hundred-percent effective, never-failed, tried and true method of passing a drug test under any conditions, even under prison watch. So yeah, I know it works, and I don't have to tell you boys it'll hurt like a bitch even if it was done by an experienced nurse, which I'm not, but I'm the closest you'd get," you took out a catheter from the bag for good measure. In all honesty, it was mostly a scare prop - to scare the team into detoxing, and it was working, because there was a sea of crossed legs, groans, cringes and looks of complete, unfiltered horror.

 

"And it might come as a bloody shock to you lads, but I've also got zero desire to don a pair of gloves and have to manhandle all of your dicks. So, detox?" you smiled cheerfully.

 

Yep. Detox.

 

* * *

 

 

He's too involved - he knows it. Coach Negan knows he's way too involved when he asks Roy Thurman to take out the laundry girl. He's way too involved when he's gently chewing through those cookies, opening his wallet and glancing at the thank you card. He's the kind of guy that sought the admiration of peers, and though he loathed to admit it, it meant a lot to him. He thinks he's just being smart, clever and manipulative when he drops the line about the NCAA coming over, but in truth, he had no idea that you were experienced in the art of passing a drug's test by nature of how you grew up. To Roy, it all seemed highly planned, but to Coach Negan - it hadn't been. The truth of the matter was, he asked Roy Thurman to take you out because he thought that you deserved it, even if you didn't think that you did. He asked Roy Thurman to take you out so that for three days, after your cousins visit, you'd be fucking safe. He asked Roy Thurman to take you out, because he wants you in arm's reach after you meet up with your cousins so he can hear everything that's happened.

 

He asks Roy to take you out because he wants another excuse to be closer to you, and he knows it.

 

It's pathetic, really, but he cant stop thinking about the day out. 

 

It had been such a good, nice day - and he cant remember the last good, pure, nice day he'd had. In actuality, it's probably because he hasn't seen you in such a long time that he's thinking about you, because you're busy, you're premed and drowning in homework and laundry shifts. Your life was absolutely not an easy one and he knew this fact better than anybody, and comparatively, it made him feel slightly pathetic, curled up in the corner of The Roach, where Mike was refusing to give him back his car keys. He's drinking because he's turning forty one, and there's the NCAA to worry about, there's that big away-game, and he's fucking miserable.

 

It's his first birthday in a long time without his wife, and he buries his grief in the bottom of a bottle. His head is fuzzy, and he can't really see very well - to his credit, he isn't slurring, but he's lost the volume control on his voice, because every time he speaks - he's practically shouting. He's lost his wallet, too - so there's no point in asking Mike to call a cab and even if he bounces for it and Negan pays him back another time or adds it to the tab, it'll leave his Volvo there, and he needs it to get to work unless he wants to take another cab in the morning to work then pick his Volvo up at the end of the day. His other choice is to wait for closing, and have Mike drive him home - which he's done before, but he hates it and it's hours away.

 

He has no friends in the bar, and he's going through his phone trying to think of somebody to call - he has colleagues, but he wants them to think highly of him, he can't really bring himself to call any of them for a ride home. It's one in the morning too, it'd be absolutely unprofessional to call them.

 

It's why he's calling you - because you said you'd do him a favour, big or small. He's trying extremely hard not to shout down the phone, or to cringe, while Mike cleans out an empty glass with a dishrag and watches him mindfully. Coach isn't usually a shitty drunk, but he's being one today, and Mike doesn't trust him to leave with how high his blood alcohol level is.

 

God, it's fucking mortifying to have to call a student to do this, but he knows you're legal to drive, and you're his friend.

 

"Mike won't give me my keys," he groaned down the line "-I'm at The Roach, I need - I need my car for work - can't get a cab. Hate to ask - but can you..?"

 

He didn't even have to finish his sentence, he can hear you yawn down the line but there's instant shuffling sounds, and you're up like a shot.

 

_"Coach, you don't sound so good. Stay put, okay? I'm coming."_

 

Honestly, he doesn't think he sounds as bad as he must look. There's several empty glasses around him, some tall, some short, some shot glasses - for all of his hypocritical lecturing about telling you to monitor your alcohol intake, he certainly wasn't doing that himself. He isn't sure how long he's kept waiting either, it has to be about thirty minutes, maybe forty, but the door to The Roach swings open, and he's blinking his vision as straight as he can manage, watching you saunter up to the counter as though you hadn't been pulled out of bed. Of course, this is massively fucking weird to you, but you would do absolutely anything for Coach Negan, big or small. If he asked you to jump, you would ask 'how high?' because you owe him that much, and this isn't the first time you've had to take responsibility for a drunk who was far older than yourself.

 

You'd been doing it more or less your whole life, and this was a shockingly benign request for help to you, enough that you were hardly thinking about it as you hopped into an Uber and got a ride directly into the shifty side of town. You wondered briefly why he didn't call anybody else, but it could just be drunken logic - you mused.

 

Maybe he didn't have anybody else, or maybe he didn't want to be embarrassed. Either way, you're there in The Roach, dressed in your boots, a pair of leggings you'd pulled up over your shiny new sleepwear, and one of Lorelai's shirts you'd picked up off the floor which was sliding down your ass like a dress because it was much too big, your hair brushed haphazardly with your fingers in the Uber on the way to The Roach. It wasn't that long ago that Coach Negan had been your knight in shining armour more than once, and one time - in this very same dive bar - so it feels really, really good to be able to do this for him. You don't care how confusing and weird it is, or the changing dynamic of your friendship - you take one look at him at the bar and politely ask for the keys from Mike, smiling at him as charmingly as you could.

 

"I'm just paying the favour forward, thanks for looking out for him, but I'll get him home," it works - he smells how clean your breath is when you speak and hands you the keys from behind the bar while Negan furrows his brows at you, cringing when you hold out your hand and gesture for him to get to his feet. His coordination isn't horrible, but it's not great, and you being as small as you are - it's a lot harder to get him out of the bar than it was for him to get you out. You encourage him to drape his massive arm around your tiny body and put one foot in front of the other, not saying a word. 

 

"Thanks for coming," he grimaces at how loudly it comes out, because this is fucking mortifying to his ego, but you just shrug under the massive weight of his arm, loading him into the passenger side of the driver's seat in the front. You look at Coach Negan and you frown. He's in his casual wear - that handsome leather jacket, a pair of deep, black slacks and thick inched boots - it's the second time you've seen him out of his VMA wear, but it's a good look. His hair seems a little bit out of place though, and any scent of Old Spice is completely drowned out by hard liquor - he absolutely reeks of the stuff like he's practically sweating it, enough that it fills the Volvo up from surface to surface and makes you roll down a window slightly.

 

"This is fucking embarrassing," he says after a moment, watching you get to grips with his unfamiliar driving seat. You didn't want to adjust his seat because that was pretty much sacrilege to do to anyone's ride, but you're small, so you'll be leaning forward a lot when you drive the thing. You're confident anyway - because Ravi had let you practice in his car before you'd gotten the go-ahead to have your license recognised here, but it's still strange to drive somebody else's vehicle. The Coach looks like a mess if you're honest, his movements are belaboured and he doesn't look as cocky or smug as he usually does.

 

"Don't sweat it, Coach," you smile encouragingly at him - he was there during your bad nights, it was time to be there for his. "-we all have our off days, and I said no favour is off the table - big or small, this is fine,"

 

This was a train wreck of an off day, he doesn't say anything when you say that, and you get as far as putting the key in ignition and fumbling around with the GPS that he had before turning to him.

 

"Coach?" 

 

It doesn't take a genius, something is wrong here, because that smug veneer that he has just isn't there, and even though he doesn't wear his vulnerability on his sleeve, he doesn't need to - you know him enough that you know what he's presenting doesn't align with an a-okay Coach Negan. You don't know what he's like when he's drunk, but he sounded belligerent and agitated down the phone, and right now, he seemed to exude a sense of shame and disappointment in himself. it's normal, you think - because you've been dealing with your father doing this since you were a little girl, but daddy never had the good grace to be ashamed of it. Negan does. It's now, and only now, that you realise his eyes seem slightly larger than usual, it's not something anybody but you would have recognised, but you notice all of the little cues, the abstractions, the details. You notice things like bone structure, eye shape, body language. You notice his eyes are swollen, and drinking doesn't make your eyes swollen.

 

Being upset does.

 

The idea of Coach Negan weeping is an absolutely abstract and weird one for you, and if somebody told you that he'd never once cried in his whole entire life, you could see yourself believing it. Men aren't typically the most outwardly emotional either, but you're good at picking up on these things, you'd been doing it your whole life with your old man. You watch for any reaction or recoil as you hesitantly snake your arm over to him, moving your fingers so that they're pressing gently into his further shoulder blade. Your arm is stretched out behind his back, because he's sat forward in the seat, and he doesn't react at first, he's just looking down at his lap with a scowl, like he's furious at himself.

 

You try his first name gently, it's the first time you've ever addressed him like that without the prefix of "Coach," - because this was scratching away another boundary.

 

"Negan?"

 

It jars him back to the present, when his head glances up at you, he sees your eyes shining with concern and urgency. He's about to gruffly tell you to drive him home, and that the address is logged under "Home" in his GPS since he had to get used to his apartment's address when he moved out of his old place. Instead, your expression breaks, he watches it shatter from polite concern to one of complete and utter heartaching worry. It confuses him, but he feels his massive body being encouraged to lean into you by the arm that's wrapped around his shoulders. He really doesn't think he looks that bad, he's caught his reflection in his phone after he called you and he thought he looked okay, but he underestimates your prowess, and your ability to spot that something isn't quite right with him. Your expression shatters like a mirror and your voice goes from a gentle murmur to one that cracks halfway through.

 

" _Oh!_ " your voice cracked after you said that, taking on a dulcet, soft, almost personally ache to it, you slip into idiom that you seldom use before you realise that it's out of character, because right now -  _Negan_ is out of character, so you simply meet him toe to toe with it. "-Oh, _bab!_ \- What's the matter?"

 

Your painfully British colloquialism doesn't raise the same smile it usually does, but his expression changes to one of closed-eyes resigned-ness when he realises that you're somehow seeing right through him. He's not a man whose easily seen through, he is not transparent or forthcoming with his own emotions because he's struggled with them for a long, long time since his wife passed, so it's something short of a fucking miracle that you can somehow see past all of his layers. You don't realise you're doing it, but you're exactly mirroring Lorelai's own behaviour with you, when she'd stumbled in on you upset.

 

"Take me home, s'in the GPS," he mutters, but his tone lacks all of the cocksure egotistical nature that it usually had, it even sounded just a little bit defeated - and gravelly, darker than usual, but you ignore it - because he's clearly not in a good place right now. Just like you. You pissed all over the boundaries and you willed his drunken, clumsy body into your side, the way you would push into his, only him being bigger than you - it put him directly into the side of your neck, but you didn't care. You felt your heart sink down in your chest when you felt the wetness of his eyelashes against the bare skin of your neck. He didn't need to do it in front of you, you now could confirm he was sad about something. Men don't typically emote the way women do for a multitude of reasons, and Negan was not the kind of man to let it show if he could help it, but you didn't need him to, you just  _knew._

 

He was pulled into scents of peppermint which became drowned out by coconut oils which to him, always smelled like chocolate or fresh-made cookies, casting his mind back to when he'd quite happily discovered the source of the baked goods smell in his office back in the Sports Hub. He can feel you moving your hair with your free hand and it's now draped over him and going down his own neck and back like a blanket of warmth and comfort. It's shameful, and embarrassing, but you don't give him much choice and he is not one to shy away from a woman's touch, so when you gently encourage his body to lean into yours, he doesn't fight it. 

 

It had been a while since you'd seen each other, but you closed the distance like it'd had been just yesterday you were holding hands down Birdhouse Way.

 

Coach Negan is your friend, he's there for you, and he's sad. He's drunk and he's sad. He's there for you when you are - and you, selfishly, never consider for a moment that his life may have its own struggles and turmoils.

 

 _Bab,_ short for babe, but less sensual, yet somehow even more affectionate, and the way you talk to him when you recognise he's just as messed up as you are is nothing short of the softest crooning, treatment that he's not at all used to. It's been a long time, and even Lucille didn't quite do it like this - it's the idiom, maybe, or just how soft and small you are, he's not really sure, but he feels a warm sensation sprawling through his broad chest when you gently press your cheek against his hair and the hand around his shoulder rubs it up and down to assuage him in a gesture of comfort. 

 

Drunkenly, he drowns himself in this sensation of fresh-baked goods and tender female skin - he's so much of a rough person that he knows he's the last guy that would get treated in such a manner by absolutely anyone unless he was fucking them or something, but you treat him with absolute concern, affection and keening need to make sure he's alright. It makes him feel important - and you're just desperately trying to imprint that same sense of security that Coach Negan had given you in Birdhouse Way when you launched yourself into his body and embraced him. You curse how tiny you are for a moment, because you don't think you can do that - but you try.

 

"I shouldn't be making you fucking do this," he grouses into your neck, his hot breath raising easy goosebumps that he doesn't see, because his eyes are shut.

 

You tut at him before you can stop yourself, even though he's far older than you, you tut at him like he's a child.

 

"Oh, as if. We're friends, Coach. Friends look out for each other. No more of that," you chided him gently, he isn't sure he's ever been chided like that before either, and between all this and the thank you card, it's definitely a week of firsts for the older gentleman. It's selfish, too - but your skin is so soft and you smell so good that he could just lose himself in this highly inappropriate moment.

 

You don't call him out that he'd been crying, because you're not out to shame him, or make him feel any worse than he clearly already does, you just gently encourage his head down further until it's resting in your chest. It's not out of any sensual need, it's out of a strange, almost maternally empathetic one, there's something about men crying which always twisted your gut far worse than when any woman did. It was probably because it was so often shamed and so rarely ever seen that it broke your heart that much more on the rare occasion that you ever did see a man upset. It's why your heart ached when you saw Trevor in the state that you had when you met him in Barnes & Noble, and you'd delicately kissed the bruise made of his eye on your way out. It didn't matter to you in this moment that you were half his age, boys do cry, and boys deserve comfort too. 

 

Even old ones.

 

"If you tell me what's wrong, maybe you'll feel better. I might not always have an answer like you do, but I'm very good at listening," you said after a long moment - you'd let him rest on your chest until he wrenched open his eyes, and blinked owlishly when he realised his head was snuggled quite comfortably on top of your breasts, and that it  _didn't_ feel weird, but it  _should._

 

 _"I'm forty-one,"_ he blurted - he's not very good with the touchy-feely stuff, he's actually pretty good at helping others work through their feelings, their ideas and their thoughts - but he's absolutely shit at working through his own. It's not a chance he's often presented with by other people either, and instead of say happy birthday - because clearly it is anything but - you just continued to stroke his arm - not caring how strange it was. The confession reinforces the age gap and how truly queer this friendship and this situation is on the outside, but you don't care, it explains some of the drinking anyway.

 

If this was so wrong, you didn't want to be right. 

 

"Shit, I hope I look as good as you when I'm forty-one," you said after a long moment, feeling his body move against you as he gave a very weak attempt at a humorous snort. There's silence again, and you're very hesitant with your prompting, but you do - because you're curious, and you want to know if you can help, you practically ache at the idea of not being able to after everything he'd done for you.

 

"What's going on with you?" you murmur "-I won't tell a soul, you know I wont," you give his shoulder a little squeeze, and that's enough.

 

That clinches it, for some reason - when he's drunk especially - he's absolutely weak for the affection, like a starved dog, and he breaks.

 

"It's my first birthday in twenty years without her,"

 

Oh, there's a her - you don't know why you're surprised, he's old - he's probably had strings of relationships, it's just that he never seemed like the settling down type. Maybe he's divorced - but the finality of the tone suggests the more sinister implication - that he might actually be widowed. It's not a thought you'd ever associate with the man looking at him, but instantly, you find yourself wilting under his words, pressing your face into his hair a little more in a light rubbing motion, like you're going to snuggle the top of his head for whatever little comfort that offered.

 

"And it's shitty," he croaks - he was a shitty husband, he cheated on Lucille plenty while she was sick, he watched her  _expire -_ he's a horrible fucking person and he knows it. You're a nice girl, he thinks - you're a nice girl who deserves nice things and that's why he takes you out and asks Roy Thurman to do so too. You deserve it even if you don't think so and right now you're going above and beyond the call of duty to be there for him in return when the power dynamic dictates that you have zero obligation to do so, but you insist on it.

 

_She's such a nice fucking girl and I don't deserve any of it._

 

"I was shitty," he hiccups drunkenly against your tits, but you don't care, you're infinitely patient with him - you're used to this.  "Lucille was sick. I cheated. I was a fuck. I'm s-uch a fuck," he hiccups again. The alcohol is removing his filter, and he's swamped in instant regret when he confesses, but you don't push him away, in fact, you snuggle him in deeper, and he can see the topmost part of the lingerie that you sleep in, because his face is resting against the translucent lace.

 

You close your eyes - God, what a mess. It's a disgusting thing to do too, and you're no priest, you can't absolve that kind of a sin, but it's not your place or your business to do so. Coach Negan had been nothing but absolutely wonderful to you, he'd done things for you that nobody else had ever done and that's what mattered.

 

"That's not a good thing to do," you agree softly, speaking into his hair as you stroke his shoulder. "-But nothing you tell me is going to make me think less of you because I measure men by what they do, not just what they say. You've been good to me, so good. We've all done bad things, even me. God, Coach. Even me," 

 

"And if I carried the burden of all the things I've done, I wouldn't be here right now. We have to try to be better than we used to be before, that's the only thing we can do now. I'm not asking you to bury your grief, you work through it, and it's hard. Impossibly hard, and it's shitty, and it consumes...fucking everything," you sighed - this, as Mort Sci, you were at least a little more trained for, grief-handling anyway, but this was purely from the heart, not the textbook. "But it's not something you're obligated to work through on your own, not if you have people who care about you,"

 

You considered your words for a moment, you didn't know who he did or didn't have in his life, and he called you to pick him up - nobody else.

 

"I mean, I care about you,"

 

Negan closes his eyes - the genie is out of the bottle now, he's never felt more naked in his life, but the earnestness of those undeserved words make something spiteful boil up from the base of his throat. He's practically spitting flames when he replies, drowning you in the scent of mixed alcohols clinging to his tongue.

 

"And what the fuck could a sweet little girl like you have done that's fucking worse than cheating on your wife whose dying of fucking cancer?" he spat - his tone is resentful, like he wants to embrace all of your softness and your comfort and everything that you have to give but he can't bring himself to do it so he's absolutely spiteful in turn. You dig deep - and you dig hard, he knows everything about you and more in terms of the dirty little secret of what occurred at the Fi Kappa Sci party at VMA, but he doesn't know everything there is to know. You're your own wellspring of secrets, but he's clearly just trusted you with the thing that chews him up inside more than anything in the world. It might even be the kind of thing that you feel too ashamed to tell a priest about, but with all of the alcohol and vulnerability he was feeling, he'd told you.

 

You felt like you'd taken advantage of him a little, to be honest - and so when you said it aloud, you resisted the urge to cringe as you did. You needed him to know that you didn't think poorly of him, and that you at least kind of understood, because you had your own dirty little secrets.

 

You had your own badness that made you not a good person, he just didn't know it yet.

 

"I killed my uncle."

 

Freeze.

 

You feel him go rigid against you, his eyes are wide, and he's staring up at your face from his place on your chest, he's not breathing or moving for a moment, until he shudders out a noise of confusion when he searched your face for any sign that you might be joking but you aren't. There's that hint of clinician-like tones under your voice that tells him that you're definitely serious, but he cant imagine a tiny little thing like you killing somebody ever. You're too small. You're too sweet. You're too good. You're too kind.

 

_Fuck, she's so small she has to jump in heels just to kiss me she's so small coach she's innocent thank you for being kind to me thankyouforgivingashitIdontreallyknowwhati'vedonetodeserv---_

 

All of your innocent moments hit him like a freight train, and his thoughts come to a violent, disjointed halt as the words are repeated again, with a quiet seriousness.

 

"I killed my uncle, because I blamed him for something that happened to me when I was a little girl," you closed your eyes and whispered down to the man. It's not a story you'd ever told anybody, not a single living soul, not even your mother - it's the kind of thing you'd write in a suicide note, or carry to the grave but never something you could utter out loud, even if you forget the statute of limitations, it's just something you felt so much personal disgust by that you didn't ever linger on it for very long except in your quietest moments. It happened a long time ago, it was practically ancient history, but it was one of those sins you don't bleach clean. It's one of those things that you'd answer to God for because it's inexcusable.

 

 _"Shortass?"_ he whispers in disbelief, it distracts him from the agony of his grief for half of a moment.

 

"The details don't matter. I was angry at him, and Uncle Prav was nothing but nice to me. Good to me. For the longest of time, I loved the bones off of that man, he would go out gambling with my father but always make sure he didn't do something too foolish. He was a fucking card and a half. A good guy, as far as people in my family go. He had a bad heart, too." You don't want to go into details, there's not a good enough shrink in the world that could make you do that, but you need to lighten Coach Negan's burden somehow, and this seems like it might be the only way.

 

And you would do anything for Coach Negan.

 

"I repaid years of kindness by taking his medication one day while he's struggling on the sofa, he's asking me to go get it, but I'm angry at him. I'm blaming him for something. In that moment, I hate him with all the hate a thirteen year old can muster because in my mind, he's responsible for the worst thing that ever happened to me as a child. I'm holding it in my hands," you can still see it in your mind's eye - it doesn't matter that it's ancient history, you can remember it sharply and that distant look in your eyes tells Negan that your mind is instantly back in Cheshire. "I'm holding it and I'm watching his skin turn all these colours that I didn't know a human being could turn. He's telling me to call an ambulance, but I don't. I go upstairs, and I flush the pills down the toilet, and leave the empty bottle close by, so it looks like he ran out. I stand, and I watch. I watch him turn purple. I watch him struggle, I watch him fall on the floor, knock the coffee table on the way down and writhe. I'm standing by the door when he stops. He's dead, and I go home. I crawl into my bed, and I do not lose a wink of sleep for two months."

 

"What did you think he did?" he asks, your words are incredibly sobering, he's staring up at you, but there's no disgust there, or fear - just fascination.

 

You shake your head, it doesn't matter, what matters is the horrible thing you'd done.

 

"When I found out it wasn't him, but my own daddy, I just... God. Coach, I threw up for weeks. I didn't eat. I barely slept. I nearly killed myself with the guilt. I hated myself for what I'd done. I kept apologising to his ashes over and over, like it'd do a goddamn thing," you breathed "The point isn't the why, it's the what. I did a horrible fucking thing, the grief and the guilt together nearly put the nail in my coffin. I stopped because my mother needed me - people needed me, and I couldn't tell a living soul what I'd done. So I never did." 

 

You glanced down at him, your face utterly blank, but your eyes - they shone with unshed tears.

 

"You're the first person I've ever told. So yeah, you might not even be the worst person in this car, and God, do I fucking get it. Not exactly, but more than most," there's a chance he might not even remember this conversation, and that thought comforts you deeply, while he stares up at you searchingly.

 

"My advice, to you - Coach, is this. You have to move on from this because if you dwell on what you've lost and all the worst things you've ever done and the things you could have done better, you will  _never_ be any better than the moment when you were at your worst. You wont grow. You wont change. You'll be frozen in time, and you will never be able to get past it. I like to think I've changed from that thirteen year old who watched her uncle die, I like to think I'm not that angry, resentful little girl that tried to lash out at everybody that ever hurt her or thought had hurt her. You seem to think good of me, and I have nice friends, and yeah, I don't think I'm a great person - I don't deserve nearly any of what I have, but I work hard, and I work to earn all of these things so I never hurt anybody the way I hurt Uncle Prav ever again. You can't ask forgiveness of the dead, but you can forgive yourself, and do better,"

 

You swallowed thickly - you doubted coach would hate you for what you've said, but you hope it helps, it seemed better than the textbook Mort Sci "How To Deal With Grieving People," guide you'd been given as supplementary reading, and it seems to have hit home too. He rises up off of your chest reluctantly and looks over at you, his face is just inches from yours - and you can see something glistening down his cheek. That sinking feeling returns in your chest when you see he's still upset, and what you're staring at is a tear track, but he's quiet and masterful about exposing his weakness whether he means to be or not, because you didn't even realise he'd shed any tears at all.

 

"You're a smart girl," he breathes, the scent of liquor rolling over you before he leans forward, and then goes to bury his face into the side of your neck again.

 

You let him, ignoring the goosebumps. He's sad and drunk, but it seems you've struck a chord with him. You told him something that...God, he didn't even know he needed to hear, he felt a little lighter for the fact no matter how heavy and guilt-ridden it was, as grief wasn't an instantaneous thing to work through, but you spoke and presented a beacon in this horrible, mourning fog. For the first time in a while, he could finally see the path that lay out ahead, and he was just drunk enough that he didn't feel too bad now that the dam had been broken, letting tears slide down your neck into your brassier and down your shirt.

 

You don't care, your chest aches a bit for him, but you hold him the way that you wished somebody had held you after what you'd done as a child.

 

He asked again, briefly, once he'd gathered his wits, what made you do that.

 

"Today is about you, not me. It doesn't matter," you said soothingly "-you matter," 

 

He gives up the line of questioning and lets his ego melt at your words, pressing himself inappropriately against your exposed neck and using the liquor to excuse his keening need for your gentle, comforting touch. He wasn't a man who got comforted often either, and this was really quite cathartic, and despite the setup, absolutely lovely. Still, he's a bit embarrassed as he sobers up slightly against your body, and grumbles about this being slightly mortifying.

 

"It's okay to lean on people sometimes, it makes us human, anyways, lets just call it Even-Stevens for all the times I've done it to you," you smile, he doesn't, but he nods against your skin.

 

 _So inappropriate...God... I'm fucked..._ he thought, watching you fumble with the GPS until it began directing you to his home.

 

"Let's get you home bab," you sigh, gently peeling the man off of you and reaching over, arching your body over him to pull down the belt and clip him in without making him do it. He lets his greedy eyes roam down your body as you do it, he's looking down the saggy shirt at what looks like lingerie. He doesn't take you to be the lingerie type, but he sees something purple and translucent holding your chest up, and faint sheer material hanging off of it which slips into the depths of Lorelai's oversized shirt. It's so big in fact, that he can see absolutely everything from this angle, but he thankfully has enough restraint to not say anything. 

 

He's just keenly aware of how hot he thinks you are, and groans internally again, because he thinks of you as his little friend, his little mentoree.

 

_With such a cute little body._

 

And you don't even think he's a monster, knowing the worst things he's ever done.

 

 _God, I am so fucked -_ he's far too old for you, and you don't even look at him like that besides that stupid List - but he doesn't take it to heart too much even if he really wants to. You admire him, you look up to him, you make him cookies for fuck's sake and he's staring down at your tits like some kind of hungry animal. The car ride to his apartment is silent as he fades in and out of consciousness briefly because he's quite comfortable as you drive, it seems you're very good at following GPS instructions, and you treat his car like it's a kitten, because you're as gentle with it as you were with him, taking soft turns and obeying the speed limit, savouring the emptiness of the night roads.

 

He says he doesn't need help getting to his apartment, but you insist - because he's been fairly upset and you want to see him to his door, and God - isn't this a shitty way to spend your 41st birthday? Your 20th had been equally sad because of everything that had happened to you, and now, Coach was suffering too because he was absolutely grief stricken, it wasn't fair.

 

One of you had to have a fucking good birthday.

 

You get him to his door and don't bother to hide your awe at the size of his apartment - he's definitely paid well, because it's not a sad bachelor pad. It's wide, it's expansive, there's smooth marble counters, wide, plush sofas, an absolutely gigantic television and a view to die for, the thing that strikes you, though - is the smell of stale beer. You cringe as your foot makes contact with a glass bottle, and you stare at the floor surrounding the couch, seeing an appalling amount of empty beer bottles which had just stacked up over time. Coach worked long hours on the days he did work, and he made a point of exhausting himself and falling into bed or on the couch by day's end so it just stacked up. He tells himself he'll get it clean eventually, but he never does.

 

Negan resists the urge to apologise for the state of his apartment, because you brought yourself there after all. He wasn't expecting company.

 

You resist the urge to feel strange about standing in a place as personal as a home - a staff member's home, because you're not staff and student anymore. You're friend and friend. Tonight proved that. You drop him onto his sofa and glance at the clock - it's 2AM, and it's been a shitty 41st birthday for him. He's expecting you to leave, but instead, you sit next to him, and ask if he's hungry.

 

He is, but he's too lazy to fill his fridges, he usually gets outside catering, so they're actually pretty empty.

 

You wondered how on earth anybody could live like this, and found yourself rooted into place, forcing yourself to be a positive presence in his life. Just because your 20th was a bust didn't mean his 41st had to be, you swore to yourself. After all of the nice things Coach Negan had done for you, it was about time you did something nice back and a car ride, snuggle and a chat didn't really cut it for you.

 

"I'll order something, I have Just Eat," you said with an eye roll, whipping your phone out - and maybe he was showing his age, but he had no idea what that was, he usually just kept menus and ordered it the good old fashioned way, instead, you had an entire fastfood directory in your hands and were scrolling through it, leaning your shoulder against his on the sofa and not caring about the strangeness of being body to body anymore.

 

"This one's on me, it's your birthday, pick something," you hand him the phone and marvel at his TV, which in fairness, distracts him from his sniffling and makes him preen. It's a fucking behemoth of a thing, it's a 32" plasma widescreen television, it's needlessly huge and shows off just how much disposable income he actually has. You see there's still unpacked moving boxes, and wonder how somebody manages to live in semi-squalor when they don't actually unpack all of the things they move in with. Then again, if he lost this Lucille woman recently, it stands to reason he's a mess.

 

"Wow," Negan mutters, going through the list, it's a bevy of options and his head hurts, he feels like garbage but food sounds excellent right now while you try to figure out all the buttons on his remote. It's so advanced that it actually has a big red button on it specifically for Netflix, and you're surprised when you put the TV on, hit the button and see a login screen. Did Coach seriously not have Netflix? How did he  _live?!_

 

"Lets try and make sure your birthday isn't a complete bust, just cos my 20th was doesn't mean your 41st has to be," he blinked at your words - he didn't even know you had a birthday this recently, and it made him feel a little bad, but you hadn't been as tight as you were now in terms of friendship, and the gesture was very sweet. He couldn't really believe you'd want to spend time with a sad old drunkard like him when you could be back at campus in your nice, warm bed. You really did seem pretty invested in him, and it made him feel strangely important.

 

He blinks again in confusion as he watches you login to Netflix on his TV - he knows of it, and he knows he has a button for it, he just never fucking bothered to use it. 

 

"Ugh, I'm totally making you a profile on my Netflix account when I get back. For now, let us do the age old student celebratory ritual of Netflix and fastfood," you smile over at him "-I know it's hardly a bumpin' party but I don't want to end the night like this, do you?"

 

You don't want to end the night sad, and it's such an innocent, sweet little thing to say - that you care about his 41st birthday that much, that something in his chest melts, and he finds himself nodding - picking an option from the veritable list of food places.

 

"No,"

 

He pauses, and looks up at you while you scroll through an impressive amount of TV shows, movies and titles, pressing into his shoulder a little more so you can look at his choice on your phone screen for food, take it off him, and order your own - smiling up at him hesitantly.

 

Yeah this was pretty fucking weird, but the whole night had been pretty fucking weird.

 

"Thank you," Negan utters quietly, it seems underwhelming for all the nicety you're showing him tonight, when he's been nothing but drunk and inappropriate and admitted to utterly heinous behaviour. But you still smile at him, and you show him more kindness than Negan thinks he honestly deserves.

 

"Happy Birthday, Coach," you're reluctant to do it - because it might be weird, but considering you felt his tears sliding down into your cleavage, it doesn't seem any less inappropriate than that. So you lean up, and as innocently as one might do it to a stranger under a mistletoe at Christmas, you press your lips to the side of his face, a little ways from the slightly impressive amount of salt and pepper facial hair the man was accruing in his age and laziness. It's only for a moment, and it's an absolutely innocent peck, the kind that you could even get away with doing in public if you utter the 'happy birthday' line before it, but in this closed, intimate space. On this sofa. Together. It felt so much warmer than that, and that sprawling warmth in his broad chest intensifies.

 

It's so innocent that he does something he didn't think he'd end up doing on a miserable, mourning sort of night like this. You're grinning that impish grin of yours after you do it too, searching his face for some sort of negative expression in response and finding none. He puts you at ease, and does something that surprises even himself.

 

He smiles, and he chuckles.

 

"Thanks, Shortass."


	13. Fortune Favours the Bold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has actual content, I've just been sort of in a bit of a block recently so I just want to put something up.

 

 

Oh, no. Fucking  _no._

 

Negan felt insides simmering, there wasn't any other way to put it because his emotions were heated and building up over time. He was slipping and he knew it, he was slipping like a woman fresh off the phone from a breakup and oozing into rebound territory, but could he even really call it that, after so much time had passed? Probably not. He can feel it though, and he's not used to being the person whose feeling this emotion, he's usually seeing it in some of the women he's tried his luck with when exerting his powerful charisma. You give him more than he deserves and he's made you aware of it, but it's still happening, your friendship is still going on and still deepening with every passing moment. The Netflix movie of choice was some absolute mess called  _Kung Fury -_ a modern martial arts movie which seemed to be one ridiculous 80s homage. 

 

It's ridiculous, and bad, then ventures to "so bad it's good" territory in its silliness - the premise is purely stupid too. Kung Fury has to travel back in time to try to kill Kung Fuhrer Hitler - and honestly that's as much of the plot that Negan can follow, the whole thing is a mess. But it's a hilarious mess, and he has to comment on it.

 

"This is not just the most quintessentially 80s fucking thing I've ever fucking seen, but it's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever seen," he's grinning when he says it though, and midway through the movie, food arrives. His birthday feels a little bit salvaged, even though there is a certain surrealism to the situation. It sinks in when it seems somewhere in the special instructions, you'd specified it was a birthday, and between the fastfood being made and delivered, somebody scrawled "Happy Birthday!" in black marker and a somewhat disjointed smiley face along with an inclusion of extra garlic bread (which, one can never really complain about). He ended up settling on pizza again, since he was a man whose easily pleased when it comes to food, with as much meat on as they could pack. It's an order you're quite happy with, and are content to munch along with him happily while Kung Fury credits roll and you switch blithely to binge watch TV show so you wouldn't have to keep wiping your greasy fingers before picking up the remote to pick something else.

 

You clumsily pick something which isn't his cup of tea at all, it's  _Pretty Little Liars_ and he's certain it's aimed at people even slightly younger than you, and the writing starts strong before turning into a hot mess, but it's strangely addicting, because it reminds him of his teaching years and it's been a long time since he's been a teenager. It's not the most adventurous 41st birthday, but it's better than drinking alone and dwelling in his own turmoil, feeling sorry for himself. He says something to that effect as he sobers up, and is now aware enough to feel the tension between you two for what it was. At least, he can feel it inside of himself, he's unsure if there's much of it coming from you, there's just blind trust when he looks down at your smaller body, seeing you happily munch on garlic bread and lean into his arm like you'd been doing it your whole life. It's so fucking natural that it's disturbing how at-home he feels having you treat him in this way, and that's how Coach Negan becomes aware of how truly, utterly fucked it all is. It's fucked because he knows exactly why he's into you. Fuck, the fact he's even acknowledging part of him is into you, it's all bad. He really shouldn't be.

 

You're smart, you're pretty, you don't think he's a monster - but importantly, when you look at him, he sees blind trust. When he tells you to do something whether it's advice or not, you take it, and you do it, and you seek him out for that specifically because you  _need_ him and he's a man that likes to be needed. He's a man who likes to be respected, and he knows that you must respect him immensely even now when you have to drag him to his apartment and drive him home at his worst. You respect him immeasurably and he can see a reminder of it whenever he opens his wallet and glances at the handwritten thank you card. He's pulled out of his thoughts when he feels your chest pushing up against his arm, and that you've slipped out of your shoes so you can put your legs on the plush sofa and not damage it.

 

"I think we deserve a do-over," he forgot the catalyst for this, but his mind hangs on the word do-over and that impish expression that casts him back to you pulling him around Birdhouse Way and keeping him out until late. It's absolutely enthralling, the sort of expression and breathy words that could tempt a saint to sin, he's certain of it. 

 

_God, I am so fucked._

 

"A do-over?" amusement leaking in his tone, you wouldn't even suspect there was an internal turmoil happening as he looks down at you with those unreadable, cold eyes of his.

 

"Yeah, I mean, my birthday sucked, yours kind of sucked,"

 

"Except for this part," Negan butts in mindfully, before you continue.

 

"Right, except this part. But we should do it over from the top," you gave him a crooked smile.

 

"I've gotta cancel all my cards and shit, get all that sorted before I'm dropping more cash, my wallets gone," he remembered suddenly, which put a dampener on the idea of having a do-over when he couldn't pay for it with ease, and he wasn't about to have you foot the bill, but that's when he saw your smile stretch and a dangerous sort of glitter come up into your eyes.

 

"Well if you don't mind a walk on the wild side, that's not a problem," you said cheekily, and the curious look he gave you made you quickly add "-nothing illegal necessarily,"  _maybe -_ "-just a bit of fun on the town. I guarantee you wont have to crack open your wallet once anyway, so it's not a problem,"

 

"What do you have in mind?" he honestly hasn't a clue, but you put your finger to your nose and give him a goofy sort of expression, telling him that you had no intention of revealing your do-over plans, he just shook his head and smiled, turning back to the TV to catch a few more minutes of the teenage TV show.

 

"We'll need to pick a day for it though, when we're both free."

 

That's when he says it, he just blurts it out and it's uncharacteristically in-eloquent and he blames being in sober-recovery and it being so late for his lack of grace. He put down his slice of half-eaten pizza and wiped his hands, sliding out of his own thick inch boots and revealing a pair of plain, grey socks so he can join you in making himself at home. He's quite happy that you're so comfortable here, he doesn't think that most people are, but then again, he doesn't know that you're used to often waking up in strange and sometimes dangerous places where you had no idea where the fuck you were or how you got there. Being anywhere with Coach Negan - but ESPECIALLY his home - felt incredibly safe to you, even if it was extremely intimate.

 

"You could stay here for a few days," he cringes internally at how weird of an offer it is, and he can tell from your expression that it's an odd thing to say too. "-I mean, you'd have a ride to campus whenever I leave, it's not far anyway, we can have our do-over and you don't have to worry about disturbing your roommate. It's not like I even use this place much, by the time I'm done at campus I pass the fuck out so it's not like it'd make much difference to me. I probably wont even be here when you don't have lessons or a shift or something," he adds quickly, tempering how strange it sounded with reason.

 

Logic, he applies logic to it and sees understanding dawn on your pinked features - your - wait....shit, you're _blushing_. He can see he's made you blush and the reigning sense of smugness washed over him because he knows he's the one that's doing it but fuck, he's way too fucking old for you. This shit is inappropriate in every way, but in his acknowledgement, some of him has given in. He's very aware of all it'd take too - as egotistical as it sounds, he's sure he could seduce you. He was much older, he knew exactly which buttons to push, you're a train-wreck 20-something trying to stay on the right path and constantly gravitating towards trouble. You're keening for security and safety and he likes to think he provides both, he knows he has to, to some extent, because you trust him with things you wouldn't trust another living soul with and all it would take is the warble of the lip or betrayal of sadness and you'd have his head in your breasts, stroking his hair - because you're fucking  _kind._

 

There's a sort of light about you, no matter how rough and tumble your beginning was, no matter how much trouble you fell in or seemed to have follow you, there's that light and it shows in your little moments. The cookies, the smiles, the pinkie-swear, the look of absolute trust, the banter, the - God - the thank you note, the fact you honestly give a shit about his birthday, the way you launched yourself into his chest just because he made out like he gave a fuck about you because of the state of your arms. God, there's a light there, and he wonders, blithely, if Trevor Matthews even got this far enough to see it. Negan's actually disgusted with himself because he's taking advantage of how vulnerable you are, he's thinking about all the ways he could get you to melt against him and knows he has a high chance of succeeding - no matter how smart you are. Because he's Negan, and Negan always gets what he wants.

 

He thinks about how all it took was some honesty and vulnerability to get you to open up, and yes, while none of it had been faked, he did disgust himself slightly with wondering how far he could have taken your kindness. Even his offer doesn't feel innocent, but he really wants it to be. He takes one look at you with a french fry dangling out of your mouth and really fucking wants it to be. There should be at least one person in your life who isn't out to fuck everything up for you, a male at that, a trustworthy adult, a responsible person. You had nothing and no one in this strange land and you're even more alienated by circumstance and tragedy. He tells himself that he's offering his apartment for a few days just to get you away from that, because he's somewhat alienated by tragedy too, albeit in a much more different way.

 

"I know it's fuckin' weird, you can say no if you want," he adds, seeing your indecipherable expression. He can usually read you quite easily and the fact he cant after floating such an inappropriate offer has made him somewhat anxious, though past his cool exterior, you could never tell it in a million years, or believe that Negan was ever anxious about anything.  

 

"My thinking is just - you look like you could do with getting away from VMA constantly being in your face, with the whole space-case thing too, and all those extra advancement tests you said you've been taking, you could take a time-out for a while and know you're safe here, because I'm around," he resists the urge to make the last thing sound like a brag, but it's true, you do feel safe around him and your shy, tiny smile reveals that.

 

"If you're sure I won't be trouble? They've been offering me some leave from the laundromat in light of the Lizzie thing, I haven't taken it but Elise thinks I should, and my teachers have been really cool with me too, Eichmann not withstanding," you added bluntly "-they've all been sort of surprised I've not taken any time off or nothing, and that I'm taking advancement tests. I just did it so I had something else to think about but it'd be nice to get away from all the stares and the awkwardness in Unilocks. It's like every time I walk past somebody, they're picturing me dashing down the hallway barefoot with a limp maiden like I'm a medieval hero when I'm anything but," you ran your fingers through your hair in a tell-tale sign of deep annoyance, with this context.

 

"I know I have worse problems than people looking at me in awe, I fucking get that, but falling back into my bed at Unilocks was supposed to be the normal part of my life, besides our little jaunts now and then," well, it's not like you were even pretending some of those sessions were PT, they were jaunts, little bouts of fun, pure and simple - and the open acknowledgement of it shattered another barrier. "Maybe until the heat dies down," you acquiesced, giving him a shy sort of expression. It seemed okay because Negan made it sound like he was hardly there much besides to lay his head down, otherwise, staying with a much older man might seem a little risque, but it was frighteningly natural. All of this was. That was the strange part.

 

"You can get some of your shit tomorrow, I'm not in until later but I can get up a little earlier to drop you off so you can talk to your boss and shit, then just toss your crap in my car and we can come back after practice," he murmurs - he talks like he knows exactly what to do at all times and it was so reassuring. Even when he was drunk and broken, he was so terribly in control.

 

"You sure  _you_ don't mind?" he asks, raising a brow and showing he didn't expect such ready agreement. You actually snort, like it's a stupid question because in a way, it sort of is.

 

"If you could have seen some of the places I've crashed, Coach. Shit, you wouldn't ask," you rolled your eyes and swallowed some more fries down. "-Grow up like how I did and you get surprisingly used to waking up in weird places and having no idea where the fuck you are. Safety was a relative concept," 

 

Your life had been worlds apart from his own middle-class one, this is one of those moments that showed it. He's sure back when he was young, and especially nowadays, parents would have a fucking conniption over their children washing up in weird places, staying the night in a place they don't know, and even if your mother is a good one - your upbringing showed a distinct lack of basic needs being met which might explain why you so often drifted towards trouble without meaning to. Predators sought the lone girls from broken homes like a heat seeking missile. For a moment, Negan wondered if he was any better than them, but reminded himself that he rather fancied the idea of protecting you, not purely exploiting you, and that made him different. He hoped.

 

"Gotcha," and just to assuage his own thoughts, he gives you a serious look. Despite being a washed up widower who needed a student to drive him home, he still considered himself in a position to lecture gently, and did so. "And just because it's me, I'm not giving you a hard fucking time about it, but I really fucking hope you'd be a little more scrupulous if this offer came from anyone fucking else, not everybody is nice,"

 

Your expression darkens for a moment, like a cloud passed over you briefly.

 

"I know," you glance away from him and stare blankly at _Pretty Little Liars -_ "-believe me, I know. Thanks for um, being concerned. I guess. But I know. I'm only saying yes because it's you. I trust you and you're my friend," you shrugged.

 

Fuck it all to hell, there it was in black and white and now -  _fuck it up like you always manage to, champ. Go on._

 

_Well, nobody ever accused me of being fucking good._

 

"Good," he mutters, before passing you a drink when you ask. The tension is absolved for a moment as you spring to your feet, the sound of gas releasing from the small can of soda lets out a loud hiss as it proceeds to spray down your front, speckle slightly on the man to the left, and then on your pants, with little reaching the floor. You swear violently, but your reflexes had been quick enough that none of it had gotten on the couch, but you felt soaked through, and the can felt light, like it had spat out half of its entire contents on you.

 

"Son of a bitch!" you snapped, cringing at the sensation of cold cola seeping through your clothes and visibly grimacing as you put the can down and wrung out the wet fingers which held it, which almost felt sticky already and didn't bode well for the rest of you.

 

"The fucking idiot delivery driver must have shook it in transit or something," you turn to him and glance down at yourself, before tugging at the slightly too-large shirt and pulling a face "-Lorelai's going to fucking kill me, this is her shirt," it's not like she doesn't have a closet full, but it was expensive just from how it looked and he didn't know too much about women's fashion, he just knew what looked good and what didn't. He got up slowly and unzipped his jacket after wiping off some of the errant specks which landed against the pliant material with ease and tossed it over the arm of the couch.

 

"I'll get you a towel, hang tight and finish eating," his voice was oddly soothing, and his coordination had improved a lot as he turned to leave the room. 

 

"I think I'm soaked through," you mumbled, feeling it soak into your lingerie slightly, it wasn't going to be pleasant in the morning, and luckily you didn't need to elaborate much further. Even somewhat drunk, he was a pretty sharp guy, and knew that cola got sticky the second it dried anywhere, so it needed to be washed out pretty quickly. 

 

"Chill," he calls out from the other room, before walking back into the doorway and tossing you a dark blue towel that lands squarely on your lap, which, he notices grimly, also suffered some of the spillage. "Finish up and you can toss everything in the wash,"

 

Oh, he had his own washer-dryer. That would explain why you never saw him do his own laundry at the laundromat like a lot of staff tended to do, you sighed with relief, rubbing the towel over yourself and under your shirt without much of a care for the fact that you should perhaps turn your back while you do it.

 

"I don't have anything to wear," you point out, because you did pretty much rush your way over and barely remembered to grab your handbag - you only had what was in there, which amounted to medication, a small book, your purse and your dorm room key.  Negan actively has to resist the urge to ask how this is a problem, because he wouldn't care too much if you strutted around in just a sheet, or your birthday suit, but considering the new ground he was treading - it would probably be wise to pace his humour a little and not push you too hard. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was make you feel creeped out, or come-onto in a bad sort of way, especially after offering you a safe house to lay your head.

 

"You may as well jump in the shower in a bit, if you want," he suggests it, but he knows it's more of a necessity unless you  _wanted_ to deal with your clothes sticking to you and your skin clamming up since it had gotten all over your chest. That sticking cola sensation between the breasts was probably awful, and he didn't need to say it. He just sort of knew, and there's visible relief on your face when he offers use of his shower. He wants you to be able to use the place as a home and not just feel like it's one, but clearly you don't feel like you can just use all of his facilities like it's a damn hotel. It's probably more luxury than you're used to, too.

 

"Then change into something fresh - you can borrow some of my shit, I mean, fuck you'll probably drown in it, fair warning, but you can," he smirked a little, because it's true. He remembered how his jacket covered most of your torso when he'd given it you to cover up your skimpy club-wear through the bad side of town.

 

"Seriously?" you looked at him in surprise, he was very, very accommodating and had it been any other older man, you certainly wouldn't have trusted it. But it was Coach Negan, and you trusted him implicitly. "Thanks! You're the coolest," you grin, knowing how it makes him preen, but it's true. He's pretty fucking cool, and it seems like he's sobered up with some food and non-alcoholic beverages down him, which is good because part of you worried he'd only offered to let you stay because he was wasted. It was seeming like this wasn't the case.

 

"I know," Negan replied tartly and smugly, landing back next to you on the sofa, now a lot more comfortable in his white tank and jeans, his shoes off beside yours.

 

You felt dry enough to at least comfortably eat, and the pair of you lapsed into silence. It wasn't awkward, and the TV show filled in the gaps easily, but it's more and more intimate the more you scoot on the sofa trying to get comfortable while covered in soda, feeling it dry as the episode continued. He read your body language easily enough to tell it was getting physically uncomfortable for you to be in your clothes, and got up without prompting when the episode ended, pausing it for the pair of you before it droned onto the next one.

 

"Right, there should be a clean body towel in the hamper, shower's easy fuckin' enough to work," he leads you to a surprisingly large, pristine marble-white room. It's fancy as all hell, and the tiles even heat up under your feet, with a heated towel rack to boot, you shuddered to think what the cost of this penthouse apartment was. It was probably more money than you'd ever see in your lifetime, so when coach said he made good money, he really wasn't exaggerating. You're gawking and you don't hide it, causing some smugness on Negan's end and he switches on the light which illuminates how grandiose it is. It's a massive whirlpool bath fixture, which is massive in size and a strange post-modern L-shape, so some of it can be protected by a glass screen - which you realised, was to stop the water from leaking everywhere from the shower head. 

 

The taps looked a little complicated, there's buttons fixed to them but he tells you to ignore them, they're for the Jacuzzi feature, he says. You're still hung up on the size of the strange post-modern and impressively cool looking thing, but considering Negan's size, shouldn't be too surprising - he's a big dude. Big dudes need big stuff, you reasoned. 

 

"All you need to focus on is this top release, here," he gestures to the small cylindrical fixture atop and between the hot and cold taps. "Get the temperature you want with the sinks, then lift this and water will come out of the shower, push it back down when you're done to get it out of the taps again and turn off. Simple shit, couldn't be simpler if you just ignore all the other buttons and shit," you're smart enough to figure it out on your own, but still, he doesn't want you burning or hurting yourself trying to figure it out, it's an intimidating looking thing with more buttons than it should really have.

 

He lets you fiddle with the taps to get the temperature you want and comes back in with an old biker shirt and some elasticated track pants that he hopes you can fit in when rolled up so you don't trip over constantly. You're small to most and a positively tiny creature compared to the likes of Negan. You take the clothes gingerly and put them to one side, he notices you seem to like it scaldingly hot, smiling when you stick your hand underneath the taps and nodding, not at all phased by the steam coming from the end.

 

"I'll leave you to it, call me if you need anything," he paused, as an afterthought - quickly adding "-use my shit if you want, I don't mind,"

 

You nodded, feeling your ears burning. It was strange using somebody's home in this way, sure you'd crashed in weird places but this was different. This was safe, and he was giving you permission, he was gentle and for someone who a while ago was a complete mess, was very hospitable no matter how awful he must be feeling. You hoped that meant you were gradually recovering his 41st birthday as best you could. It felt like something you should do after everything he'd done for you, and seeing how deeply miserable he was under that impassive veneer, well, shit... The state of his apartment told a different story compared to the cool, calm and collected coach you knew from VMA, he was clearly not without his own struggles, you just never deigned to ask and you motioned to fix that  _tonight._

 

 _"_ Alright, thanks, you keep watching - tell me what happens," you grinned, eyes glittering as you did.

 

You waited until you heard the door click shut before shedding your clothes, which now clung to your form, cringing as you had to peel some of them off of your skin and left them on the ground before hopping in. Coach had invited you to stay at his swanky fucking apartment! Usually guys would expect some sort of  _payment -_ but Coach Negan wasn't one to just want things off of you, he usually just sat and listened. It's no longer an appropriate student-staff relationship, you know that, so it's time to throw any pretense of it out of the window. 

 

Turning, you could see a bevy of Old Spice products and a blue razor hanging off of the opaque shelf within arms reach. Ah, that must be what he uses on a daily basis - and it smelled good, even if it was tailored for men. Reading the back label, you got yourself a cheap chuckle.

 

_Warning: will induce severe manliness and may make you want to fight bears and tackle lions. It's 1 bigillion times longer lasting scents than anybody else, but we only say up to 7 hours fragrance due to our modesty. What's the one thing more manly then Old Spice? Bengal Tiger jumping over a cobra fight on a snowmobile. Smell like a man, man._

 

Oh yeah, this seemed like Negan's sort of product, from the item right down to the marketing. Honestly it was kind of hard to pinpoint what sort of things he liked besides sports. For a while you compared him to your father and just thought he might be into billiards, gambling and conning, but no, he was an entirely different animal. Yes, it seemed he liked his drink, but he at least was a functioning alcoholic, because he was able to be incredibly successful in his day to day life and appear collected and with all his shit together, which your father definitely didn't. He had a sense of humour, a swear-ridden, inappropriate, shock-value type of humour, but that's all you knew. That, old rock 'n roll and sports. It seemed he didn't mind corny kung-fu movies at the very least, the rest would be a learning experience, you supposed, because with an age gap so large, he was bound to like different things. Things you should probably try to learn about if you want to be his friend and not just somebody he feels the need to feel responsible for, like some sort of annoying child.

 

You jump out feeling clean though slightly odd, for being naked in somebody else's place - Negan's specifically. You looked in the hamper and frowned when there was no towel, feeling self-conscious for dripping everywhere, you called out for him, cracking the door and awkwardly leaning yourself to it and trying to keep your body behind the rest of the door for the sake of modesty. The tension from the couch comes back will full-force when his arm reaches through the crack to hand you a long, body-sized black towel. He respects your privacy, though he truthfully wouldn't have minded one bit if you'd opened the door fully and copped an eyeful. He sees your dark skin and even darker hair glistening under the light. His mind plummeted into the gutter so quickly he's surprised he didn't stop the door with his foot just to stare. It's not like he hasn't seen a naked woman before, but it's the fact it's you, and you're  _close -_ he doesn't see much, but he sees enough. You open the door just wide enough and only had one free arm to reach for the towel, but the other had been spread across your breasts to cover you. 

 

As the door shut, the same thought which had been flitting in and out of his all mind, hit him hard with more force than it had all night. 

 

_GOD I am so fucking royally **fucked** up the fucking ass. Fuck, no! _

 

If it was literally anybody-fucking-else, he could deal with it, he could deal with a string of random women, hell, he could even deal with it being his bitch of an ex-mistress, but this? You? His mentoree? God, no. It had to be you. He tells himself he's still drunk, but he knows all it's done is take that microfilm filter between his thoughts and his emotions. 

 

"I don't think the pants are happening, they're kind of...massive," says your voice behind the door.

 

He swears up a storm internally.

 

_You're really not fucking helping!_

 

"That's fine, I don't care," and he doesn't, well, he does  _care_ but he doesn't  _mind,_ but it's not helping his inner turmoil. He could pretend he  _isn't_ in inner turmoil and function as normal, which is currently the only plan he has, but he's just invited you to stay, and honestly, he doesn't know how much longer he can really tackle his own disgusting thoughts of playing on your brokenness and simply seducing you, because he knows that he can. At least, he thinks he can. He remembers how he'd made you blush on more than one occasion and hopes he isn't grossly misinterpreting through his own ego. Part of him really wants you to be into him at least physically, and it's shameful, it's a thought that should be relegated to when he's alone in the shower or unable to sleep at three AM and feels the loneliness in his bed. It shouldn't be a  _day-thought_ that he's struggling with, he's usually able to compartmentalise this sort of thing, but now the lines blurred. You keep breaking all the barriers and blurring all the lines, and he's done it too, so he cant say it is all on you.

 

Fuck, he's sure you don't even know you're doing it and that's the worst part. You have him wrapped around your little finger and he's sure you don't even fucking know it, but boy, he sure does.

 

You come out holding your laundry with the towel draped over your shoulders to stop your hair dripping everywhere. He catches sight of the purple lace under the soiled shirt, but doesn't comment. He looks at you and his mind goes completely blank as he sees what you look like in his clothes. The biker shirt has faded iron-text because he's owned it for so long, white font emblazoned on black cotton - the words  _Born to Ride_ spread over a classic Harley Davidson. It sags down your shoulders but the towel covers that. True to his statement, you drown in it, it's practically swallowing you whole and hangs off your arms like bat-wings. The front of it presses against your moist skin despite the towelling and it's clinging to the curvatures of your body in a way that hadn't even entered your mind, but God, it enters his. How your tits look through that shirt of his, which on you, looks like a dress. It's pitch black but he can make out everything from how it hangs off of you and is narrowly thankful he's as cool as he is because anybody else may not have been. He catches the scent of his own body wash and as much as he prefers all of the scents of your hair and your particular routine, there is something positively  _primal_ and territorial about having his own all over you. 

 

_I must still be drunk, control yourself, dickhead._

 

It's because it's so wrong and morally questionable in his own mind that he's thinking about it so much - you clearly aren't. You overthink enough as it is, but it seemed you knew when to go with the flow, to know when you shitcan everything and sink your teeth into something new. That's what made you markedly different from most highly strung premed students, besides the fact you found it vastly unchallenging, every now and then the pendulum would swing the other way and he'd catch you fresh from a party, resting under the skylight. 

 

He watches as you toss your stuff in his washer, and cast an eye on his build-up of clothes, he tended to leave it until the end of the week, build up a pile then force himself to do it on a Sunday, but some stuff just flat-out never got picked up out of the dirty clothes hamper and never made it in, because he would convince himself to wash-as-needed, and well... build-up. Albeit, unused clothes, and he still had a fresh wardrobe, but still. There's something about watching you patter around barefoot, wet and just in a shirt and towel. The shirt fell somewhere down a little past your thighs, covering everything, but still. 

 

Something about having his scent, wearing his clothes, strutting bare-legged around his apartment, God. Not only was it strange in how natural it was, but it was casually captivating, because it  _shouldn't be you._

 

It is so fucking weird, he changed everything by making you come and collect him tonight. You'd be staying  _the_ night too, since you'd both stayed up late too. He'd probably be taking the couch for those few days he invited you over for, but that was fine, he passed out on it more than enough and didn't make it to his own bed very often unless he was leading a woman to it.

 

When it came time to scoop up the leftovers and put them away, you frowned at how empty his fridge was. He has Coors Light in twelve packs but little else, a few other kinds of alcohol maybe, but mostly beer. There's - for some reason, half a tub of butter, but it doesn't constitute food, and of course, protein drinks, but little else. His cupboards are equally shameful apart from bread which you immediately threw in the bin when you saw something fuzzy and green on it through the packaging. God, did he pay attention to how he lived? Sure, he made good money and his apartment was amazing, but his standard of living wasn't the greatest. It was like all he did was work, and if he wasn't working, he was probably at The Roach or at home, getting through the impressive amount of beer which was also strewn across the apartment. Mostly around the couch, but some lazily left on sides, counters and window sills.

 

You didn't even care if it was presumptuous to throw out somebody's food, you drew a fucking line as a person and a training medical professional when that shit had another fucking life-form growing on it. 

 

"Your bread went off," you said shortly when he glanced at the entire loaf thrown in the bin "-trust me, you eat that mold and you're down and out for at least a week."

 

"Shit, didn't notice," he grimaces "-I don't shop a lot, mostly because by the time I get around to fucking cooking and eating the fucking shit, it'll have gone off or bad, and I'm usually too beat anyway," that's how he explains his empty fridge, but you feel something in your gut plummet.

 

Nobody should come home to an empty fridge and pantry, that's something you had come home to for much more depressing reasons, through lack of income or your father selfishly clearing the fridge for dinner over cards with his buddies, it was a horrible feeling to drag your school-bag across the floor and the only meal you'd had that day to be a government subsidised free school meal at 12:00 five days a week. Some weekends you were just plain hungry, and it wasn't a good feeling, not at all. How can someone surrounded by such a lush looking lifestyle let himself live this way?

 

"Well the leftovers should be good for tomorrow evening and we can grab something at uni for lunch," you said off-handedly, the last thing you wanted to do was criticise the man's castle after he'd given you a place to stay. You weren't even sure how long you'd been staying, but he ballparked around three days and then to simply "see how it went," it terms of the hype around your Lizzie incident at Unilocks. When it came time to turn off the TV - signified by your put-out yawn, since you'd been up a fair while and had been pulled out of bed to get him home, it seemed his clothes would make for decent PJs - and he didn't comment or rudely linger his stare in a way that made you feel any more odd than you already did, prancing around his unfamiliar apartment like this.

 

When it came to the bedding situation, that's when you drew a line.

 

"I'm  _not_ turning you out of your own bed when you've offered to let me stay here, seriously. Besides, I've crashed on floors, in closets, in garages, on roofs," you paused, rolling your eyes as you went through the binbag of memories "-in trailers, foreclosures, a train station---" you trailed off at his expression, before cracking into a friendly smile, laying back on his couch once he'd cleared it and put some extra bedding down for you. He watched you gingerly roll the shirt down your thighs as it rode up and not seem to care that you were in a compromised state of dress around an older man you didn't know for very long, about to sleep in his home.

 

However, with context, it made sense. Just from what you said and the idea that, decent mother or not, you were free to just flit around in that way, not only did it imply you were used to coasting around and finding any excuse not to go home - but it suggested you might be used to dangerous situations from washing up in odd places.

 

"Trust me, your couch may as well be the freakin' Ritz, plus, no Lorelai snores," you said cheerfully, pulling up the blanket he dug out and covering your exposed legs with a tiny smile.

 

He wanted to argue the point that this shouldn't be a living standard you're happy to accept, but he doesn't belabour it, he's too tired and he needs to sleep for tomorrow to be semi-functioning. Getting drunk had been a horrible idea to do when he had something on the following day. He still cant believe he's doing all this now, but how could he expect you to take another cab back to campus after collecting him, spending time with him, trying to cheer him up, comforting him and keeping you awake until late. It would be positively rude, but after your own little reveal, it would be difficult to walk things back to a more professional place now.

 

Still, you had to wonder, was this weird?

 

He feels like for some reason, his earlier point hadn't quite sunk in, so he walks to the couch and crouches near it while you're pulling the sheets up, and looks at you as seriously as he can.

 

"I'm serious," his voice takes on a darker tone, and he watches the smile drop from your lips as you stare at him in concern and apprehension. "I really fucking hope you only say yes so quickly to staying the night at some older guy's house because it's me. I don't want to think about you washing up somewhere you shouldn't. You remember what I said about you being small, pretty and lost most of the time, and how it attracts bad people, don't you?" his tone softens near the end as you glance away from him, face reddening slightly.

 

It sounded too soft for him, too concerned - but it echoed the sorts of sentiment he had tried to express at Birdhouse Way when he rather sternly told you to quit your bad harming habits and start keeping a diet plan. He wasn't the best at expressing his emotions, he struggled with it even when he wanted to, the genuine, difficult emotions especially. It's a wonder you even saw through all his bullshit to begin with, he rationed that it was because he was drunk and therefore worse at hiding his upset, but it's not. Fact is, you've been able to see through his veneer more than once, because you'd done it in Birdhouse Way too when you met his sternness with softness. You embraced him when he yanked up your sleeve and told you off as he lorded over you, and you met that with utter gentleness. It happened again, he recognised that peerless look in the car when you embraced him and you were showing it again as he tried to tell you off.

 

"Only because it's you," you reiterate softly, it doesn't matter how stern he's trying to look. He wouldn't be emphasising this point and saying these things if he didn't care, the drawn, frowning brows and stern expression set in his jaw did nothing to make you quail, you just gave him a watery smile instead. Coach Negan was a hardass on the outside, and when he didn't know what to do, it stood to reason that he'd cycle back to doing what he knows.

 

He gives you a long, hard look, like he doesn't quite believe in your ability to keep yourself from making poor decisions but wants to believe you.

 

"Good," he responds gruffly, blinking when you lean to the left as he's crouched down so you can do what you did earlier - and go for his closest cheek. Was this weirder? Was this a thing that you'd do now? It felt like for every line that was crossed, there was no going back, and doing so would erase the progress of your bond, so the best thing to do - at least, to you, was to double down. That's how you and Negan would progress as friends. Doubling down. You hope the timing isn't strange, but it shouldn't be, because he's going to bed and so are you. The action is definitely strange, but with the context and the intimacy, did it have to be? If it was, he didn't show it, he didn't recoil, or even really react besides letting his lips twitch as you pecked his cheek. It was as quick and as chaste as the last one, but he cant figure out the reason this time.

 

"And what was that one for?" he murmurs in a low tone, his voice now less serious than it was a moment ago, though his dark stare still severe.

 

"Letting me stay," you offered weakly, he nods once in acknowledgement and smiles to let you know it was okay to do, before rising to his feet. He says something to the effect of waking him up if you're too uncomfortable and you can still swap, but you hold your ground regarding crashing on the couch, and he parts by saying he'll set the alarm for lunch tomorrow so you can both sleep in, so you know to send off a few emails on your phone and maybe wake up earlier if you need to call and confirm your time off.

 

Oh, this was going to be so fucking weird to tell Lorelai.

 

You shoot off some emails quickly and text her, knowing she'd be in bed, and ask her if she can put some of the things you took out of your suitcase back in, and the outfits you brought together - one of them, anyway. It's only mid-text that you realise how weird this truly is. There's no way she's going to understand. The sort of bond you have with your mentor isn't one that can be easily explained, the only person who might get it, funnily enough, is Trevor, because he's the only one with some idea that Negan is even tangentially involved in all this, and even he might struggle. They don't know all the little moments shared, or the laughs in the car, the meals, the mutual favours done for one another - individually, they were just nice moments in time, but together? They were a firm path to a friendship at the very least and the day in Birdhouse Way had made it glaringly apparent.

 

But of course, Lorelai cant know about the events of the Fi Kappa Sci party, or why Coach Negan is so involved and invested in you. She cant know because you have sworn to yourself that you would do everything in your power to protect her and keep her away from all of this, so you'll just have to swallow whatever reaction she has.

 

Surprisingly, despite the unholy hour, she texts back immediately.

 

_It'll be ready by the time you get back to campus but I have class so I can't see you off. Are you sure this is ok?_

 

For someone who had a one night stand with a random from DV8, she was shockingly concerned about you suddenly spending a few days at Coach Negan's place, so it must really seem weird, or at least, out of place.

 

'She doesn't know' - you remind yourself - 'it seems weird because she doesn't know. If she did. She'd get it.'

 

She also doesn't know Coach Negan the way you do, so naturally she's highly concerned, knowing how sensitive you are after losing Trevor. Even if Coach is totally appropriate with you, which Lorelai struggles to believe - she thinks you're fucking cute and someone as old as the coach is lucky that you even give him the time of day. Sure, he has a great body, but again, she'd focus on people in classes or closer to age. But, Lorelai is not as dense as her party girl attitude might lead people who do not know her to believe, she can pick up on enough cues to know you've got a recipe for chemistry with the guy, but she wants you to be safe.

 

She's being polite, of course, as much as she can - but you can tell what she's getting at when she says  _text or call any time if you need me to pick you up._

 

Lorelai even texts it in blunt terms as you get closer and closer to passing out with the phone in your hand.

 

_Don't be a rebound. Don't get taken advantage of. I know he's nice to you, I'm just saying be safe._

 

It's sweet, you think - but Coach Negan is probably the one person you feel that you don't need to be protected from, but you could hardly text that without having to explain it to her, so you don't. You just do your best to assuage her concerns and get her back to her giggling boy-crazy self, and manage it just before you slip off to sleep.

 

_Keep me posted. You're allowed to have fun, I'm just doing the obligatory friend-worry. I know you think he has a hot bod ;)_

 

Yep. Lorelai was back to her normal self, and with that, you could comfortably fall asleep - with her promising to have your stuff packed up so you could pick it up straight from the dorm the following afternoon.

 

* * *

 

 

The night is a long one, and he slept like a fucking rock. It is rare he makes it into his bed, even rarer making it to his bed alone, but he's laying on it and his back muscles are absolutely relieved that he's resting on a proper mattress instead of crashing out on his sofa. His age was catching up to him too, because he was seriously not able to recover from his binge drinking as well as he could in his twenties. The moment he made the mistake of opening his eyes, he felt dizzy enough to want to just die right in his sheets. He'd have to move slowly too, so he wouldn't barf everywhere, he doesn't usually drink until he vomits, he's not at an age where he can get away with that anymore, but he thinks he might have teetered to that edge last night, so he has to be extra careful.

 

For a long time, he just stays awake but with his eyes shut, breathing heavily and feeling his chest ache under the weight of his hangover. The night comes to him in hot flashes that got progressively clearer the further he trawled through his memories, because he'd been awake until he'd sobered up just slightly enough to be normal with you, and not a complete wreck. You'd picked up the pieces of him in the car after somehow reading his tired aloofness for what it was and let him be soft around you. Vulnerable, even. Sure, it's just you paying the favour forward, but he has a significant amount of years on you, and he feels fucking mortified that not only did he have to use you for this kind of a favour (despite your standing offer of being there for anything he needed) - but that you'd essentially babied him through the night. 

 

_\- first birthday without her-_

 

God, had he really been that pathetic?

 

_\- I mean, I care about you -_

 

Fuck, you'd said that, hadn't you? 

 

_Happy birthday, Coach._

 

He can still feel where on both cheeks you'd kissed him, once for his birthday, and once to say goodnight - or thank you - for being invited to stay. 'Fuck, I invited her to stay.' He doesn't regret it, but he regrets the context, he regrets the state of the apartment, he regrets how he must have shattered the allusion that he had everything in control and that he was a stable adult. A chaotic little mess like you needed stability. Stable. He was your responsible adult, and he knew that. Usually he wouldn't give too much of a damn about curbing his more harmful behaviours, but he saw that you had elevated him to a position of importance and he had to rise to it. He had to be that person that could lead you through this incomprehensible fog of being a lost international student knee-deep in trauma and conspiracy. It's not that he was a fucking good Samaritan, or that he was selfless for the sake of being selfless. He was somebody that wanted to be admired, he was somebody that wanted people to look up to him and if he wanted you to be someone who did that, he had to give you a reason to. God, he remembers the amount of doe-y eyed stares you'd given him, and all the little smiles, the blind naked trust. He remembers all of it. It was driven home to him again last night.

 

-  _Only because it's you -_

 

You only say yes to staying with a strange, older man  _because it's him._

 

He hears the sounds of gentle footsteps but knows it's too early - he's set the alarm for midday and though the curtain is shut, he knows it's nowhere near, because he feels like he hasn't rested fully. He's sleeping on his side and facing the ajar door - he kept it that way in case you really did get too uncomfortable on the couch and came to wake him to swap. You figured with that amount of permission that it'd be okay to come into his room, you still feel odd about what you can and cannot do - truth is, you just get up early out of habit, and would probably be falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon later when you finished at university for the day. Negan's head hurts so much he cant even lift it off of the pillow, so he's looking through his lashes and making like he's still asleep, watching your blurry figure move into the room. He blinks reluctantly, realising you're not looking at him and are, in fact, rooting through your bag.

 

You put his car keys on the night stand as quietly and delicately as you can, beside his phone and clock.

 

_She drove me home so she...must have had them in her bag...._

 

He watches as you put a full water bottle that you'd filled from the sink, a glass and a small silver sheet that crinkled slightly as you set it down. It took him a moment, but then he realised it was some of the painkillers you had, but none of the prescription ones - they'd knock him flat. Personally, he felt about ready for the strongest thing you had, but you left him some Advil which you had been trying to relieve your stress fracture over the counter until you were given something stronger by the university hospital wing.

 

He hears your soft voice whispering, as though knowing his head must be pounding awfully.

 

 _"Shit, sorry. Go back to bed, go back to bed. I was just leaving you something for your head, we still have time,_ " you're hushing him gently, urging him to sleep when you realise he's awake and staring at you through cracked, almost bloodshot eyes. He honestly has no idea how awful he looks, even with the curtains drawn and lights off, you can tell he looks like hell. You can see his black hair fraying out of place against the pillow, he's a hot mess and to be honest, he's never looked quite so old as he does in this moment, and the untrimmed beard with more grey than black doesn't help. He just looks washed out, and you've been in that position many a-time, but it was probably harder on him, because he's so much older.

 

He lets out a long sigh of relief, and lets out a mumble which you suppose is a noise of gratitude, and he nods straight off again.

 

This left you feeling odd from the sensation of being able to roam around his fancy apartment without abandon. There's still this queer feeling though - like you don't quite belong here and it's strange fishing through his kitchen even if it was to get him a glass he could use. Glancing down at the fact you're just in his shirt, you walk to the washer-dryer and pull out Lorelai's cleaned shirt, though it still feels wet, and the lingerie feels uncomfortably damp, but you cant wander around without a bra for much longer, because you're contemplating going outside because his kitchen is just so empty.

 

_He's gonna be asleep for a while, I could watch TV some more, but I'm kinda hungry...._

 

There's just leftovers from last night, but you both agreed it'd be your dinner later tonight, and you both agreed to get food at university, but how would he without a wallet? Can he have a staff tab or something? Or, perhaps he just forgot that when mentioning the food plans. You didn't think much of it, but if you really were going to stay here, you'd need to eat, especially if you were taking leave from your laundromat shifts and weren't on campus, you would need to come back to a fridge with food in it, it's that simple. Again, it feels presumptuous and rude to do, but he's offered you a place to stay, and he had reason to do it. He's looking out for you, you tell yourself - all of this is you taking a much needed break from VMA that isn't just a sneaky jaunt to Birdhouse Way for an evening. You need to take care of yourself, and take a break from the infamy you gained, and the constant omission-lies you had to feed everyone around you.

 

You frown and decide to slide your shoes on, you saw a Select & Save on the drive up and it's visible through the window, so you paw in your bag past your medication and reach for your purse. Yeah, you had enough loose cash to do a quick shop, you think. Just race there and race back - he should be asleep for a while, and maybe he wouldn't mind breakfast - if he doesn't like it, you can have it, either way, if you're staying, his fridge cant be empty. It's that simple.

 

It's 9:30AM, and it's a chilly sort of morning, because the clouds are covering up the sun making you feel colder in your damp clothes. It feels weird having somebody else's apartment key in your pocket like this - using their home like this, especially after not asking permission to do so, but he's a reasonable guy, surely he knows you cant both subside on catering and Coors, right? Especially with your salary and his limited money access before he goes to sort it out with the bank, he'll be busy cancelling his cards, getting money out in-branch and doing whatever else he has to do to make up for a lost wallet. This, you reason, could relieve some stress for him.

 

The Select & Save was quiet, the cashier was bored, and likely nobody would really be in until lunch time, griping for meal deals, and then after work - to get something for the ride, or after they've picked up their kids. The shop is empty and the aisles are a sterile white that makes the eyes ache. There's rows upon rows of crisps and chocolates, but you frown and keep walking until you hit the freezers. There's microwave meals, which are good in a pinch but not real food, often high in salt and have an undertaste of plastic which becomes more apparent the more you eat it.

 

It's tempting to grab one just in case, so you do -it's just a macaroni and cheese meal, but one for eating in a pinch with a year long freezer shelf-life. The guy is a bachelor, and lacking even the basics - eggs, milk, bread and cheese. The latter you don't even know if he eats, isn't he a fitness guy? That made this harder, but you made some effort to get the healthier loafs and pause when you see whole wheat bagels instead.

 

_God, I could do with breakfast, he'll be fucking starving **and** hungover._

 

Remembering how he tends to run out of time when it comes to freshly purchased goods, you try to go for things with the furthest expiry date, grabbing long-life milk, some eggs, your personal favourite cream cheese in order to end the cheese debate going through your mind, and then everything else. The rule of thumb when food shopping for yourself and someone you don't know - there needs to be enough to make a sandwich, at least. So you grab some spreads, some lean chicken - knowing you can't really go wrong with that, and search diligently for some sausages to at least fix a full English when you find bacon. It's ambitious but, it doesn't look like it's happening. The closest you find are sausage patties, so you sling those in too, grabbing some staple foods on your way out - tinned beans, soups, rice and pot noodle and juice. It's a really bare bones feeling sort of shop, where you're trying to get everything you can within reason while trying not to be overly domestic, but the truth is, the way he's living is just unsustainable.

 

_I'm not being presumptuous, he can't live like this._

 

You sigh with relief that he's still asleep when you get back, you just want to put everything away and not have to explain it until he goes into the kitchen himself, where you can just play it off as just a few things, because it looked more immense when separated into more than one bag. You know you probably cant eat all of this in a few days, but there's two of you, and in truth you were shopping more for him than yourself, but didn't want to feel like you're taking liberties. Still, every time you think you are, you recall how trashed he looked in bed, and how much of a mess he'd been last night, and tell yourself Coach Negan is no less of a mess than you are.

 

It's just, he's old, so he doesn't have people he can turn to and lean on. You leaned on coach, but who did coach have? Nobody.

 

With that in mind, you began using the empty _Select & Save_ bags to quietly pick up all of the strewn empties that littered his apartment floor and surfaces, glass bottles occasionally clinking against each other. You weren't going to clean his whole apartment - besides the bottles it's not even dirty, all the packed up moving boxes make it seem hardly lived in besides his TV, but you can get the bottles out of his way, you tell yourself. So, you do, and you keep yourself busy to avoid the queer feeling of anxiety that came with trying to set yourself up in somebody else's home. The damp clothes have dried only marginally, it's to a point you change back into the overlong shirt because it's dry and warm, but keep the drier brassier on underneath this time, before wiggling out of the leggings and letting them dry against his warm radiator.

 

There. Perfect. They'll be toasty by the time you have to go out again.

 

You looked down at yourself and rolled the shirt down obsessively a few times. It more than covered you, but it did feel just a bit odd to parade so much of your bare thighs around. It was less weird last night, because you'd showered and the cola incident had excused it, but still, Coach hadn't exactly cared. You distracted yourself by taking out the unused pans you found in a drawer beside the cooker. The whole apparatus seemed scarcely used - but it meant the pans were at least clean. 

 

_Should I be asking permission to do this?_

 

You frowned -  _maybe it'll be okay if I just make sure I wash up after, he can't complain if everything is exactly the way it was before._

 

Truth is, you're paranoid and overthinking. Actually, you just aren't thinking how Negan is, what you should be doing is putting yourself in his shoes so you can gauge his reaction, instead of be swallowed up in your own nervousness. You recalled how easygoing he'd been about using his shower stuff, and giving you this shirt to sleep in (pants too - if they'd have fit) - maybe you should just do what you'd do if this was your old man. He was a cruel prick though, not a kind bone in his body, none of your actions were ever met with gratitude, but you could tell they were needed. So, maybe you could just cook up your rendition of daddy's hangover breakfast? If he doesn't like it, he doesn't have to eat it, you tell yourself, and you can have it later, because you'd be making one for yourself too.

 

It's why Negan wakes up at all before his alarm goes off - because there's a lovely smell seeping into his room and there's absolutely nothing  _sexier_ than the smell of cooking bacon. It makes him frown against his pillow in confusion, because he knows he doesn't have anything in the apartment, so he must be dreaming. He felt his stomach churn in sickness and his head ache heavily, he needed to piss like a fucking race horse but he didn't feel up to moving much, it's only by the grace of you and your painkillers that he is able to get himself upright, slowly, before plodding to the bathroom.

 

He's like a zombie and he knows it, and is thankful to your mercy that you don't put a bunch of unnecessary lights on, like you'd know he'd be suffering the consequences of being wasted and put up with functioning in the dark with the curtains half-drawn. A cold splash of water, shower and brushing his teeth wakes him up, but one look at his eyes in the mirror tells him he's a fucking mess. Negan being Negan and on autopilot, he trots out shortly after in just a towel, having not picked out his VMA outfit for the day, he usually walks buck naked back to his room without a care and gets changed, but just about remembers you're there from the smell of cooked food.

 

"Mmn, good morning, what the fuck's happenin' over here?" his voice is low, and scratchy. You don't turn around straight away because you're preoccupied with turning over the eggs before you nearly drop the spatula on the floor. You don't know what to do or where to put your eyes, you'd been going over what you'd say to him about breakfast and the shopping jaunt for ages over and over in your head but one look at the man and your thoughts became wiped clean like a blank slate. He's casually dripping on the floor, not too much, but the towel is coiled around his hips and dragging low, because you can see the healthy sprawl of chest hair leak downwards down his wide, thick frame, leaving a happy trail that sank into the towel. His hair admittedly looks a lot thinner when it's weighed down with water, even though he's patted it dry, he's consciously not too rough with it, he knows he's thinning at the front, but while you notice, it's the last thing you care about.

 

"Breakfast," the word is blurted out inelegantly, your mental dialogue still blank and unable to pull up the long array of lines you had prepared. You're practically scarlet, but keep your eyes focused on his firm jaw.

 

"I see that," he says hoarsely, closing his eyes as he felt a throbbing sensation in his temples. "-Just wondering where the food came from,"

 

"I did a quick run to the shop, but my clothes are still kinda wet, so - " you trailed off, chewing on your lip. "I thought you'd be hungry and feel like pure shit so I thought I'd make daddy's hangover breakfast," glancing away from him - because shit, what if he doesn't like it? What if you've finally made things weird? "-but your fridges were empty, and you invited me for a few days so I just thought... I'd get some stuff in, I um, shit. I hope that wasn't presumptuous?"

 

_'Oh God, oh God, oh godgodgodgod, please put clothes on. I need you to be wearing clothes right now.'_

 

He stares at you for a long time, forcing his tired eyes open and watching as you pulled something out of the toaster, he wasn't sure what all you were making but he could smell the bacon the strongest, and his stomach rumbled loudly. Maybe it was presumptuous, but he didn't have it in his heart to say that, because it was absolutely necessary, especially if you were going to stay for a while - and, he had to admit, it was quite sweet.

 

"Not at all, and I will eat whatever the fuck you put in front of me, because it smells fucking delicious," he says, before turning his heel to leave. He doesn't call you out on the staring, he doesn't blame you - he remembers the List and he can feel his ego rise as he knows your eyes are tracing the muscles of his back when he catches your lingering look out of his peripheral vision. You're trying to be subtle, but the way he'd walked out of the bathroom hadn't left much to the imagination, even the towel felt like it was snug around the hips.  Thankfully, he has the good grace to shut the door as he gets changed, because you're not sure if you would have pulled your eyes away.

 

You have some control of course, you're not some uncontrollable horny schoolgirl or something, but the fact is, you noticed this a long time ago and it was enough to put him on your stupid List, and now, you'd seen more of the full package and his impressively masculine body. Your throat even felt a little dry after he left the room - for an old guy, he looked really _, really_ good.

 

_I hope I look that good when I'm his age._

 

Negan comes out of his room shortly after, his hair is brushed back into place, though still shiny and moist, and he's wearing a blue tank top that's clinging to his form while having the VMA jacket tied around his waist over the matching track pants. He's lucky to have such casual work wear, compared to some staff. He's consistently comfortable, so it's an ideal sort of job. He looks a bit more put together and significantly more awake, but looking out onto you walking holding a plate to his dining table, he's absolutely struck by how domestic it all is.

 

You smell like him, you're wearing his shirt out of choice like a dress and little else, though what he knows for sure is lingerie - which is an improvement over last night, because prior to that, he knows the brassier had gone in the wash too and it was terribly hard to keep his eyes away from the fact he could see the nubs of your breasts through it and just how fucking feminine you looked in his hideously large and faded shirt.  Now, you're cooking for him - and looking around, he notices he can actually see the carpet near his sofa - and that all of the bottles and strewn empties had been picked up. He'd be embarrassed, and maybe a little part of him is, but mostly, he's thankful.

 

Breakfast is a curious one, it's a toasted, sliced open bagel layered with cream cheese, crispy bacon, a sausage patty and a well-cooked egg. He doesn't poke it for long, he's too pulled in by the smells and takes one large, ungraceful chomp before letting out a low moan in the base of his throat before he can stop it, he exaggerates it when it happens, sinking into his dining room chair and looking at you through his lashes as you continue to go scarlet, quietly eating your own. It immediately settles his urge to throw up and soothes his stomach almost the moment he lets himself swallow the first bite. He notices you take yours with sauce, and mimics - finding it hitting all kinds of needs he didn't even know he had.

 

"Oh fuck me, that's the fucking good shit," he cant remember the last time he had a hangover breakfast made for him, it's been decades. "Fucking hell, you hit all the right spots,".

 

You just blush and look down at your makeshift bagel-burger and shrug, your own father was never quite so thankful, so this is a relief to you, and that he actually liked the food and wasn't mad or annoyed by any of your actions. 

 

"Between me and my daddy we've both been drinking long enough to know how to fix a mean hangover," you said sagely, he just hums, and wolfs down breakfast, blinking in surprise when you're collecting up plates and getting ready to wash up. Usually, he was not the kind of guy that did the washing up, but considering he cant even pay you for filling his fridges, he shakes his head and swallows thickly, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

 

"Hey no, I'll do that," he says, and you shake your head - he's hospitable enough, so instead you come to an agreement - he washes, you dry. He mumbles something about getting a dishwasher, but he hardly cooks enough to justify getting one, how domestic it is finally hits you much later into the game, when he's asking how you slept on the couch, with what sounded like genuine concern. It feels like you're in the Twilight Zone, but the truth of it is, Negan was always like this - a mess, this is just the first time you're seeing it, but through it all, he's still kind to you. It's hard to fathom where your friendship is right now, you're at a place where you're comfortable enough to do all this, and spend entire days with each other, and now you were in the habit of smooching him on the cheek. He was your responsible adult. He's  _your safety net,_ that's why you're doing it - you want to have that closeness with the only person you aren't lying to.

 

You can't deny that you're looking at him in a slightly different way though, how can you not? There's a chemistry there, the sort of thing that just comes from a boy-girl thing. You don't have to act on it, but it's enough to know it's there, and it's so wrong. You must be a fucking child to him, a victim at that - someone he has to look after, and he's old, so old. He's had an entire life before you so it just wasn't worth giving the time of day. Really. You're not even sure why you're entertaining the notion, you consider yourself to be far too smart to be so weak as to just drop your head into the lap of the first person who is kind, and good to you. 

 

_I mean, he's old, and - like, my mentor._

 

The first thought is admittedly a shallow one, but is it really? Older people tend to want different things, and yet, for a man of 41, he not only kept up with you excellently, but he seemed to be a man who needed some sort of adventure and purpose in his life, just the state of his apartment denoted he was perhaps far sadder than you thought.

 

"This was nice," he says after a moment, passing you the last dish and turning to you. Your mind wipes itself completely clean when you feel something on your head, it's a warm and precious sensation that lasts half of a moment but you cant believe it when it does. it leaves you staring up at him dumbly as he casually dwarfs you with his tremendous height, smirking down at you in his trademark manner.

 

"That was for stocking us up and making breakfast - you didn't have to,"

 

Did he just...? On top of your head...? It was a kiss, or it felt like it anyway, but it made you feel small, and much more like his mentoree than his peer. It was indescribably lovely though, enough that you felt a redness breaking out across your face, cheeks casually warming.

 

"Is this a thing that we do now?" you blurt out inelegantly, to which he just chuckles - and continues to smirk.

 

"You started it to be fucking fair," he said, raising a brow "-do you mind?"

 

"No," you answer a little too quickly, and he continues to laugh. You're not even really sure what's so funny, and continue to look up at him in blushing confusion until he points it out, he's a man to call a spade a spade and usually he would go out of his way to spare you being awkward, but this was a slight bit too precious for him not to point it out.

 

"Thought so, you're blushing up a fucking storm down there,"

 

Your lips thin into a line and you're trying to pull yourself together, creating some small space between your bodies as you stacked up the dried plates. You made some effort to slide into your easy clincisim, but it didn't seem to happen with intention, it was a coping mechanism you had little control over, and was mostly for when you were overloaded emotionally in some way or perhaps, had too much to wade through logically that you needed to be able to clear your mind to prioritise things.  When it came to your sillier, more unkempt emotions however, you were just a washed out hot mess twenty year old with trust issues and a disposition towards sarcasm and affection.

 

"I am not," you insist, trying to put some effort into it, only for him to shake his head, still smiling "-you just caught me by surprise is all,"

 

He lets out a low, I-don't-believe-you "mhm," noise but mercifully drops it, switching and asking about work. Your leave has gone through, and you mention Lorelai having packed some of your stuff away so you shouldn't be long, and may even sit in on practice if it's an open one, but he just rolls his eyes, because whether it is or it isn't, he says it's perfectly fine for you to be there, and that he's welcome for the company.

 

"Some of them perform a little better with a lady watching," he smirks, and it almost seems sexual in a way you struggle to pinpoint, but as you cant, you just scoff. "-besides, you've been a little on-off with the boys, I know a lot of shit happened, so I don't blame you, but it's nice to see you back with us. I've actually fucking had people ask about you from time to time, when you switched up your drop off times for a while,"

 

You blink owlishly, struggling to believe any of the team sans for maybe Roy because he's so nice, and Trevor, would be concerned about you, but it seems your shattered doe-eyed stare when Trevor initially humiliated you had awakened some sort of stirring in the team to know that you're okay, because they're not all horrible human beings - he's proud to say, unlike some horror stories he'd seen emerge from college football teams and how they treat girls. Negan runs a tight fucking ship, and he is so fucking glad that not all of his team are assholes, only a few, and they'd been frozen out or treated differently until they bent the knee and at least mimicked decent behaviour towards you. 

 

"Might keep the mythos under control too, if they can see you more instead of just talk about you," he teased, watching as you freeze over, your eyes impossibly wide.

 

"Mythos? What're - what are you talking about, coach?"

 

He gets another sexual, teasing dig in, acting more like his regular self.

 

"I'm just fucking saying is all, what you did to Trevor is public record between the team, and he owned it too, they know you strung him the fuck up and that he had it comin' - couldn't really expect to do that and not get the boys riled up right? Honestly, I'm just the fucking coach and the shit I've heard about the way you kiss, the way you grind - shit, I cant unhear it," he chuckles, watching as you go scarlet and look faintly mortified at the words leaving his lips. 

 

"I dare fuckin' say you've become slightly larger than life to some of the second and third stringers who've never even really got a good look at you, it's not a bad thing darling - far from," you're so hooked on what he's saying that you miss his easy Americanism slipping in a dulcet sounding nickname that just rolled so naturally off of his tongue that you didn't even question it immediately. Darling.

 

"They've got a bit of respect for you, but shit, it gets a little wild, and I just hear bits and pieces," he shrugs and lets your mind do the work as your mouth falls open and projects physical unease and embarrassment, redness breaking out even across the bridge of your nose, you're certain if he put his hand even close to your skin, he'd have felt a heat radiating from you.

 

"I'm not like that!" you blurt out before you can stop it, for some reason, the idea of Coach thinking negatively of you just burns you up, you don't even consider that he might be intrigued by what he gleans of your sexual nature, it doesn't even enter your head. He assumes at first, that you mean you're referring to the undercurrent of sluttiness behind what you'd done, and that you weren't prepared to own it - he has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but you surprise him by veering in a different direction completely.

 

 "I don't know what you heard but I'm not like that - I'm not... I'm not  _vengeful,"_ you frowned "I never  _planned_ to hurt Trevor like that, it just sort of..." you trailed off, feeling your cheeks redden under his sceptical stare.

 

"I was there," he points out helpfully, watching as you chew your lip and withhold the urge to cringe at the reminder that he had been in the storage closet. "So this is a hard sell,"

 

"Well, I'm not like that," you said insistently, frowning and folding your arms underneath your chest, causing the shirt to contour to your body in that terribly distracting manner. "I don't know what you think you saw or what you heard but I'm not like that, believe it or not, I didn't intend to do that to Trevor, I really didn't. It wasn't planned or nothing," you go from red to purely scarlet, you're not sure why it's so important to you that coach in particular understands your thought process, but for some reason you just cannot stand the thought that he may think of you as a vengeful vixen when in reality you consider yourself anything but. You want him to know you - you  _need him_ to know you, because you trust him with so much of yourself as it is.

 

"I really was going to fuck Trevor's lights out," you blurt, ignoring the reaction on his face, you'd rather him think of you as a slutty mess than somebody who would purposefully string up somebody they liked and humiliate them. You don't regret it, but damn you just - you don't want him to think you're that fucking mean, for some reason. "-and I guess I couldn't go through with it. Changed my mind. Whatever. I strung him up and left him there to save face, mostly, and yeah, I did feel a little better after I did it, but it wasn't my  _plan,_ I'm not some.... evil, plotter-person," you mumble inelegantly.

 

He lets out a low whistle, he didn't expect that kind of a confession, if he's honest. It explains the fervour he had witnessed from storage, he was in such disbelief when you'd left Trevor that he couldn't believe you'd put on a show to put a pornstar to shame, it was just damn convincing, and now it made sense - it was convincing because you really had wanted him. He'd witnessed you genuinely hot for Trevor and that's why it didn't seem like a grandiose prank until he witnessed the untimely end itself.

 

"I believe you," he grins "-it explains a lot, but uh, the team wont know that, so... rumours. They tend to happen."

 

You close your eyes and let out a small groan.

 

"I don't know how I didn't get a clue-in on that, Lorelai hasn't said a word about it, and I've already spoken with the team --" he cuts you off, because he's actually unaware of this.

 

"You have? When the fuck did this happen?" he asks, confused.

 

"It's the weirdest thing," you sigh, glad to change the subject "-Roy Thurman came up to me and asked for my help. It's why I'm kinda surprised you're doing a practice today, I mean, I'm really flattered you said I could stay and relax here a bit but it feels a little like projection, you could probably do with it as much as me, and I'd have thought you heard - they're um, they're all detoxing," you said frankly, brows furrowed "-they're gonna be strapped to a bathroom or feeling like pure garbage for a while until they're systems are totally flushed clean, didn't Roy get a chance to tell you?"

 

His mind is tired, and despite the painkillers he cannot quite function as sharply as usual, but somehow, he manages to follow your words and is giving you a newly appreciative look, mangled with that persistent confusion - he considered himself to have his finger on the button when it came to his team, so this getting under his radar is definitely new.

 

"Ah, no, no he didn't. I'm a bit surprised he came to you though," he said, before realising that - shit, he may have instigated this. This might just be Roy killing two birds with one stone - because Coach Negan had all but threatened him to invite you to their away-game, and he needed the team to test clean when the NCAA came over, so Roy being Roy and quite a clever little bastard, was getting close to you while simultaneously getting the team clean and making it more likely that you would say yes to being asked out if he's at least closer to you.

 

Coach isn't sure if he regrets it, part of him is peeved that Roy has put this much thought into it, another is relieved - because he at least picked the purest member of the team and the least likely to actually become romantically involved with you. He's not even certain if he's jealous of that, or just trying to be protective of you - he tells himself it's the latter, but the emotion is overall unhealthy, and he knows it. He shouldn't like you, want you, or be annoyed that others might - it isn't his place, he reminds himself.

 

"Yeah me too! But I'm the only med or um, premed that he knows, and he picked the right girl, I mean, shit, passing drug tests is about the only kind of test that ever mattered back home," you point out "-this is not my first rodeo,"

 

He stares at you long and hard for a moment, before his hands reach out for your shoulders and land squarely on them, he didn't even know you were doing this for him, nor did you give any mention unless he brought it up so chances were, you weren't even looking for praise, but he cant help it. His broad chest swells with a sensation of relief and deep appreciation, and he pulls you forward into him gently until you're so close that not even a slip of paper could fit betwixt your bodies. It's sudden, and intimate, but you don't fight it, because you can tell he's doing it out of pure relief. It's nice to not be the one instigating the hug either, and shyly you wrap your little arms around his thick torso, and press the side of your face into the flat of his chest through his tank top.

 

"You fucking brilliant girl," he squeezes slightly, because he had no idea what Roy would do to get his team clean but God, he knows you're devastatingly intelligent and he can trust you to get things right. He's still a little worried about it, but he can push that to one side for closer to the time. He's considering cancelling practice too - his team is going to feel like shit, and in truth, the projection thing might be right. He did drink an awful lot, and last night had been an emotional rollercoaster - the idea of staying in and not leaving domestic bliss was awfully fucking tempting.

 

"I'll cancel practice, let 'em slog through their detox," he grins - and he feels you sigh with relief against him. He thinks it's relief - and it's strange, to have somebody want to be around him like this. His hand wanders down and down until it settles on the small of your back, stop short of your backside - just barely, like he's only just remembered his place.

 

"No rush driving then, I can go pick up my stuff, you can talk to whoever you need to talk to, and you can take some downtime. I need to get ready to meet my cousins, anyway."

 

"Shit, that's tonight?" he frowns - it's a bit sudden, and he feels horrible that he demanded you come and get him from The Roach. Ordinarily, he probably would have only seen you doing laundry runs and not until Roy invited you to the away-game, and find out how the meet goes then, but because he's pulled you into his life much earlier, he's now present for that meeting, and your need to come to the away-game is moot (but, he would much rather you be there - so that doesn't change).

 

"Want me to drive you?" you shake your head and let go slowly, heading towards the radiator for your dry leggings and ignoring the queer sensation of tingling in your chest as you did. 

 

"What kind of person would I be if I let you do that?  You've done enough letting me stay," you say genially, but your voice takes a hard edge when he opens his mouth to retort. "-I'd be the worst kind of person if I let you go with me. The last thing I'd ever want to do to someone I care about is let them anywhere near my family,"

 

That rends him utterly silent, and for an awkward moment, all you're doing is staring at each other and letting that palpable tension build between you two, somehow worse than when you were body to body. He wants ask what kind of a mentor he'd be if he let you around people that you alluded to as that dangerous, or bad to deal with, but there's an untested, steely resolve in your face, so he changes his tactics.

 

"It's not your responsibility to do this shit alone, I'm not your roommate, you don't have to hide shit from me, or protect me from anything. Remember?" he recalls saying that he's the last person who needs protection, but you do not budge.

 

"I cannot in good conscience let you help," you say quietly.

 

"You don't need to protect me," he reiterates, as though you didn't speak, it's a battle of wills - until you raise your voice. He's actually not sure if he's ever heard you do that, at least, not to him. It's loud, and it's firm, and your harsh, unremitting, British baritone is not only hell on his hangover, but renders him feeling like a scolded child, barely keeping back a sensation of chill down his neck.

 

"Yes, Coach. I do."

 

He watches you pick up the leggings, and turn silently to the bathroom.

 

Wisely, he stops arguing.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
